Can't Go Back
by Giggles96
Summary: Harvey notices something off about Mike; Mike can't believe this concerned imposter is Harvey. A stumble, a crash, shattered glass. Nothing will ever be the same again.
1. Prologue

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**Can't Go Back**

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><p><strong>Summary: <strong>Harvey notices something off about Mike; Mike can't believe this concerned impostor is Harvey. A stumble, a crash, shattered glass. Nothing will ever be the same again.

**A/N: **To tell the truth, I honestly don't know whether or not I'll continue this. It's a 'de-aging' fic of sorts, I suppose, only with a weird twist. If it's well-received, then, of course I'll keep going. But like I said, it's a little strange and I'm basically experimenting, so… we shall see.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for foul language - it's particularly awful in this chapter._

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Prologue

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><p>The lighting's dim, dingy - not his regular hangout, though similar. He has pretty low standards lately - and the place is practically deserted.<p>

But that's okay. Mike could use the quiet.

Head pounding, he shakily climbs onto the bar stool and wrestles with his nervous gag reflex, cursing his stupid stomach for fooling around for no apparent reason. Sure, the bar reeks of cheap whiskey, sweat and booze, and the air is hazy with swirls of soft smoke, but he should be accustomed to that traditional stench by now and all its sickening glory. After all, he was once the king of house parties, partial to a little pot on the side and a one night stand every weekend.

Key word there, though. Was.

Mike _was_ the king.

Six months ago, he turned it all around the day his life crossed paths with the ever-so-suave, diabolical Harvey Specter. With a renewed sense of self-belief and an unremitting stubbornness to succeed, the lifestyle that was already becoming wearisome, instantly lost its appeal. And, to be honest, he hasn't ever truly missed it.

Not even now could Mike bring himself to revisit to those former glory days of cheap, empty thrills.

Now when nothing is making any sense and he's all alone and his cell buzzes in pocket for what is likely his twentieth missed call, but he hasn't got the guts to answer it.

He's a fool. A stupid, cowardly fool. Yet, at least Mike's kept his wits about him.

However, as glad as Mike may be that he's not holed up in some dodgy shit-hole getting high with a bunch of whack-jobs, all he _really_ wants is to drink away his sorrows. Not that he _would._ He's not totally irresponsible.

Mike knows that right now his tolerance for alcohol is disturbingly deficient and that if he so desired, he could get absurdly smashed with very little effort on his part, which is something the young man does, amazingly, wish to avoid.

Nonetheless, Mike figures one beer can't hurt, provided he actually gets served. It'll be a real bummer if he has to leave here stone-cold sober. Man, he hopes that's not the case. Mike just doesn't think he could do it. Though, chances are… that's _exactly_ what's going to happen.

For reasons unknown to him, not only can he not drink as much any longer, nobody _wants_ him to. Lately, everyone has become so unbelievably disapproving and watchful. All Mike ever hears anymore is no. Like anybody has any real say over his actions - as if his well-being _matters_ somehow.

"_No, I am telling you now, there is no way in hell I am letting you visit your grandmother alone at this hour. It's already dark. Let me grab my coat, I'll come with you."_

Harvey had been a serious pain in the ass that night. Sorry, _evening_ - it was only six frickin o'clock.

Subsequent to accompanying him on his visit to a jubilant Grammy who agreed on the risks of biking only minutes after sunset to no end, his boss had held him hostage at his condo, (a detour he'd been conned into taking with the promise of unfinished paperwork, an unforeseen luxury he'd found himself sorely missing) claiming that Mike was in dire need of a home-cooked meal and declaring - after reaching for the hem of his shirt and unceremoniously scrunching it upwards to 'check that his ribs aren't poking out' to Mike's unadulterated horror - that the younger man could really stand to gain a few pounds.

Under Harvey's razor-sharp glare, he'd quickly eaten until his languid tummy swelled with warmth and an over-abundance of food that it was far from accustomed to, before unintentionally dropping off on the sofa. Mike awakened with a start to discover that he had been wrapped up and mummified in a soft, fleece blanket dotted with cars and trucks from some kid's TV show, and staggered beyond belief, wondered, A: where the hell had such a horrendously juvenile article come from? And, _more importantly_, B: had Harvey Specter seriously _tucked _him_ in_?

And that's not even the worst of it. There are countless examples of this bizarre phenomenon that only Mike seems to be on familiar terms with.

Such as the time he was banned from a meeting by Donna, who was disturbed because the guy (an insanely wealthy client who _happened_ to have one tribal tattoo that Mike bet was simply a drunken slip-up from his youth) appeared 'dangerous' and was obviously 'from a rougher part of town.' Never mind the fact that he lives in a extravagant, multi-million-dollar mansion in New Jersey and owns a string of high-class restaurants that Mike could never hope to dine in, even if he booked the reservation three years in advance and saved the entire duration in between.

_"No, Mike. Did you _see_ his tattoos? Harvey can handle this one by himself. You keep me company instead. We can work on some of these neat little puzzles together, hmm? Doesn't that sound like fun?"_

It certainly did not sound like fun.

All the same, he'd pasted on a nervous smile, which was stiff and crooked and not the least bit convincing, and lowered himself onto his knees, selecting a jig-saw puzzle at random and emptying the box, scouring the pieces and turning them the right side up, much to the delight of the senior partner and his slightly frightening secretary.

One instance really stands out in his mind, though, as the moment when Mike genuinely contemplated the theory that he was cooking all of this up in his head - the only logical explanation, he rationalized - because Harvey Specter could not possibly be on the verge of a panic attack at the mere prospect of him filing.

_"The answer is no,_" he had all but snarled, as he paced the length of his office and tugged anxiously at strands of his hair with one hand,_ "I don't like the idea of you down in the file rooms by yourself. What if you bumped your head or tripped or fell asleep and I couldn't find you? Those boxes are too heavy for you, Mike; what if you couldn't manage to lift one and ended up toppling it over? You could get seriously hurt."_

The hardest thing to swallow was that the typically brisk, dispassionate man wasn't even remotely kidding.

Thunderstruck, he'd stood there, gaping, for five solid minutes, before being sent back to his desk with firm instructions not to budge without notifying either Harvey or Donna, not even to go to the bathroom.

The entire situation has gotten so far out of hand that work has pretty much become unbearable.

It's as if he needs a babysitter or he'll do something stupid like, heaven forbid, _cross the road without holding someone'__s goddamn hand_. Gasp. What a shocker.

It's so bad that _Rachel_ even tied his shoelaces yesterday. She asked if he needed any help, (which he totally didn't) and before he could politely decline, she simply bent down and laced them up anyway, walking away with zero explanation.

It is driving Mike insane.

So… here he is. Like a mother-fucking adult. Doing _adult_ things. And no-one - not Harvey or Donna or Rachel or Louis - _no_t _anyone_ can stop him.

How'd you like that, _world_? Screw your ridiculous rules and concerned supervision and all the other bullshit that's been going on lately.

Oh, and just for the record, _asswipes_, he can swear if he bloody well wants to!

By this stage Mike's chest is heaving, and he gasps for air, glaring at the stupid speck of dirt in front of him with mindless ferocity.

"Hey, kid," he suddenly hears a velvety voice call out and growls under his breath, infuriated by the interruption. "You're a little young to be parked up at the bar, you hear?"

Her tone's light, slapdash, and Mike gets the feeling she's not the type many take seriously. Smirking despite himself, he relaxes, feeling the slowly tension fade from his muscles.

"Yeah, well, I'm having a pretty shitty day," Mike grimly confesses, mouth twisting as the bartender picks up a washcloth and begins to wipe down the counter.

"Oh, yeah?" she says inquiringly, hitching up a brow. "Wanna tell me about it?"

He flicks a glance at her in disbelief.

"Oh, sure," the younger man responds, heavy on the sarcasm. "Let me fill you in on all the intimate details of my life. No problem."

The bartender rolls her eyes. "Alright." She shrugs nonchalantly. "Whatever. No biggie. Just trying to help a guy out. A listening ear and all that. No need to be such a dick about it."

Immediately feeling guilty for giving the innocent woman such snark, he sighs, shoving a hand through his hair and sagging slightly. It's not her fault everything's gone to crap.

"I'm sorry," Mike sheepishly murmurs, scratching the nape of his neck. "It's been a rough day. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I guess, I forgot my manners."

"Yeah," the stranger grumbles with a muffled scoff, "If you ever had any to begin with," and he laughs.

"No, I mean it. I apologise for being such an ass."

"No problem. Happens all the time." She rolls her shoulders, as casual as ever. "So, what'll you be having? You know I can't serve you any alcohol, right? You can't be more than.. what? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

Oh, for Christ's sake!

Grimacing at the assumption and recalling his misplaced ID, Mike scarcely retrains himself from banging his head against the bar in order to reply dejectedly, "Sure, don't worry about it."

"How about some fruit juice instead?" she offers up in its place. "It's pretty good."

Searching her face for any sign of teasing, all Mike can detect is pure sincerity. _Great, _he thinks bitterly_, Just great_. "Um…" Still feeling somewhat embarrassed about earlier, he agrees reluctantly, unable to stop his nose from wrinkling, "Uh… 'kay..."

She snorts. "Don't sound too enthusiastic."

He grins. "I'll try."

When she hands him an honest-to-God plastic cup with a striped, swirly straw, it's all he can do not to cringe. Slowly taking a sip, Mike is delightfully surprised to find that the juice is not so bad, some mixed-berry blend that's both cool and sweet. He's almost half-way done by the time his shirt pocket lights up and begins to vibrate for what feels like the millionth time. Mike rolls his eyes.

Shoulda turned it off when he had the chance.

"Aren't you gonna get that?" the bartender asks, furrowing a brow. "S'probably your Mum or Dad wondering where you are."

"Nah," Mike brushes off, absently twirling the straw. "I doubt it's anything important."

"You sure? You seem like the kinda kid that'd have somebody out there freaking out when their son's not home by-" She throws a glance towards the clock on the far left wall, "-Twelve-thirty. I'm guessing curfew? And a strict one, at that."

_I'm guessing you should mind your own_ _frickin' business._

Meanwhile, the buzzing continues. On and on and on, to his chagrin. God, he's really not in the mood. Why can't they just leave him alone? He's twenty odd years too old for this shit.

"Go ahead," the stranger jerks her chin after a few minutes. "Might as well get it over with, am I right?"

She has a point, he supposes. He's not so lucky that his self-appointed guardian is in any hurry to give up anytime soon.

Wiping his suddenly sweaty palms against his jeans, Mike takes a deep breath and winces as he accepts the call.

"…H-hello?" he inquires tentatively.

"Mike? Mike, where the hell are you?" the muted voice is positively furious, but there's an undercurrent of worry that makes his heart clench. "I've been calling you for hours! You are in _so_ much trouble, young man."

Gulping, Mike tries to keep his voice steady as he responds, "I-I'm fine, alright? There's no need to get so worked up-"

"Tell me where you are. I'm coming to pick you up."

"Harvey, no, I don't need you to-"

"Mike," he coolly remarks, "It is in your best interests right now not to argue with me. Donna has been going out of her mind with worry and to tell you the truth, I haven't been particularly impressed by your little disappearing act either."

"_I'm_ _okay_-" he asserts fruitlessly through gritted teeth.

"Tell. Me. Where. You. Are." Each word is sharp and punctuated, tone dangerously commanding, and Mike soon falters.

Why is being rebellious so damn hard all of a sudden?

"I-I'm at Sandino's, okay?" he grudgingly divulges, voice dipping into petulant territory as his lips jut out into what is unquestionably _not_ a pout. "Down by Seventh. But it doesn't matter where I am, okay? I can hail a cab later. I don't need you to come get me or whatever."

There's silence on the other line.

"You.. went.. to a bar?" comes the ominously slow reply and feeling his heart quicken, Mike nervously bites his lip.

Harvey exhales in exasperation, and Mike can just _picture_ his tense jaw and aggravated glower clutching at his guilt with rigid, ravening fingers.

"It's not a big deal-" he tries weakly.

"I'll be there in five," his boss irately cuts in, terminating the call before Mike can get a word in edgewise.

"Dammit," he mutters to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and digging the heel of his hand into his right brow where the tension is already starting to fester.

Man, this sucks. Mike is so sick of being told what to do. Just who the hell does Harvey think he is, anyway? He's not the boss of-

Well, shoot.

Giving in to the urge, Mike groans and lays his head on his criss-crossing arms in front of him, squishing his nose against his wrist pathetically. The bartender does her best to look sympathetic, but this only highlights the relief that has replaced what he hadn't even recognised as concern before.

_Wonderful_, he huffs in disbelief. Now he even has some complete stranger caring about his safety.

How in the world is this his life? Just because his facial hair has miraculously stopped growing, his suits have become startlingly loose as of late, and knotting ties is an intricate procedure he can't quite accomplish on his own anymore, doesn't mean that he's a child that demands protection.

Not even if lately Mike's been acting a little out of the ordinary himself.

Yeah, he's a tad more emotional than usual, (the dark is _scary,_ and it isn't _fair_ that they're on the twenty-eighth floor, and Harvey should never have told him off for scribbling a few spiders on some documents he'd left behind on his desk when they looked _so_ much cooler - none of that is his fault) and maybe had a tantrum once or twice, and okay, so it is getting somewhat harder and harder to distinguish basic words and sometimes - just sometimes - he finds it difficult to sleep without his new blankie (_it's super soft and snug. Really, who can blame him?_). Not to mention his attachment to his stuffed wolf, Jellybean.

...The same Jellybean he'd _really_ like to cuddle right around now.

Feeling completely and utterly out of his depth, Mike sighs and begins kneading his tired, prickling eyes.

He is so, so _beyond_ screwed.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading.<em>

_Please let me know what you think._


	2. Act Your Age

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**CHAPTER ONE:**

Act Your Age

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><p><strong>AN: **Okay, folks, so this is the deciding chapter. It might be a little jumpy and all over the place, which I sincerely apologise for, but it's the format I've chosen, so please just roll with it. Let's just say, I'm hoping it works out.

I want to be upfront with you all, though, before the story begins. I may be kinda slow updating, because next week I'm going back to school after taking a year out due to illness, so it's going to be a little hectic and overwhelming in the beginning until I readjust. If I have any energy to spare, rest assured, I will do my best to get this written, but if not, please don't think I've abandoned the story.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for foul language._

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><p>He should feel honoured, he thinks, to have been granted this magnificent opportunity to represent such a major corporation. But all Mike can muster is the barest ember of interest that, if he's strictly honest with himself, is essentially just his obligation as Harvey's associate dressed up to look pretty.<p>

Mike _has_ to do this. He hasn't really got a choice, and whatever anticipation he _might_ have scrounged together about doing this has been blanketed by a thick, entangling fatigue of the heaviest scale that is almost suffocating in its persistency.

Mike _knows_ that this is important. Knows he cannot afford to mess this up.

He's positive that his foot does not, in fact, weigh a ton and his legs shouldn't really cave in like that at the knees with each step.

He knows all of this, somewhere, in the far corners of his mind or holed up someplace in his gut that has a tendency to take precedence in his decision-making, where the exhaustion doesn't run quite so deep - but it's muted. Much like everything else.

His entire demeanour is, for lack of a better word, disgracefully unsightly. From the drooping bags under his bloodshot eyes, general ungainliness and wrinkled suit, to his slack shoulders, unfocused gaze and ashen skin. Truthfully, Mike would much rather resemble a lawyer than a zombie at this meeting, for professionalism's sake, but that's simply not going to happen and he has to accept that.

As does Harvey, for that matter, who has not ceased glowering at him since the moment they entered the foyer of this fine establishment with the glaring lights that he worries might possibly cause his eyes to bleed any second. The damning brightness of the… labs, isn't it? Mike thinks they're in a lab, or something of the sort. Anyway, it is much too much for his sleep-deprived, highly sensitive, but also slightly baffled brain to come to grips with, and it _hurts_, dammit, like nothing he's ever encountered before.

He's been awake for going on two and a half days now, surviving primarily on redbull and a jumbo-pack of M&M's, so who can blame Mike for not exactly having a clue what's going on?

Harvey's certain to hold a grudge, that's a given, but the client? He's too preoccupied panicking over the likelihood of being sued that he has hardly even glanced in the associate's direction, which is fantastic, aside from the part about getting sued, obviously. Which he understands is very distressing. Kind of.

Nevertheless, Mike is simply thankful that he doesn't really have to do very much, because he is seriously doubting his ability to form coherent words at present, and if _their_ voices are somewhat muffled, then what would his own sound like? Probably akin to a whale or some other lethargic, droning creature, if that's possible, because chances are, his sentences would all get chopped up by yawns anyway.

His movements are clumsy and stilted as they make their way towards the back of the sterile room where Dr Slater is busy presenting the weird, liquid gel stuff that caused all of this trouble in the first place, and Harvey is nodding all reassuring-like, and this is stupid because they don't even know what any of this crap does or if it even works, and Mike feels deeply uncomfortable all of a sudden amidst all of these decidedly breakable, unknown substances.

Realising his disquieting proximity to the experiments on display, Mike scrambles away from the beakers brimming with potentially deadly solutions in a bewildering burst of comprehension, but in turn, stumbles and slips.

He attempts to right himself, but fails miserably, and in his efforts to grasp onto the workbench with one flailing limb, knocks over two separate containers, which promptly smash on the floor beside him, sending a gust of smoke into the air as the contents intertwine with delicate grace - ocean blues and buttercup yellows creating a stunning green that is the exact shade of springtime. Instinctively, he covers his mouth and nose with the back of his hand, but it's too late.

Mike's already inhaled at least some of the unidentified concoction.

And he's suddenly coughing - deep, ragged coughs, that spew from his chest with an intensity that makes the colour drain from a nearby Harvey's features.

His boss is at his side at once, thumping his back in alarm while the scattered glass crunches under their feet, before rubbing in soothing circles when the aforementioned yields little benefit.

The cloud of chemicals clears quickly, which is fortunate for Harvey who has only the cuff of his shirt thrust under his nose for protection, but the damage has already been done.

The client, Dr Slater, stands back with a frozen expression of horror that _really_ doesn't inspire much confidence. Oh, man, he's going to sprout wings or another toe or something equally ridiculous, isn't he? God, Mike really doesn't want to be some pathetic freak. He's enough of a freak already and Lord knows, he has pitifulness in spades.

"It's okay, kid. You're going to be fine, it was nothing, I swear. Everything's okay," Harvey murmurs, willing it to be true as Mike's body is stricken by another shudder, tears welling up in his eyes as he continues to gag and splutter with excruciating forcefulness.

Pained and powerless, Harvey's detached façade shatters, as he tightens his grip around the kid's shoulders and comfortingly massages his arm. "Shouldn't we call for an ambulance or something?" he directs frantically at the supposed expert, but no sooner has he said this than Mike catches his breath, inhaling deeply as the stuttering cough slowly subsides. A little colour returns to his crumpled face, to Harvey's immense relief, and Mike gives a weak smile.

"I'm fine," he croaks. "It's all good. Just give me a sec and I'll be right as rain, yeah?"

_Here's hoping_.

"You don't know that," Dr Slater points out, tone shaky and unsure. "We have no idea what was in those containers."

Mike thinks then that he may have some inkling as to why this dude keeps getting sued.

Harvey fixes the jumpy client with a menacing glare that soon has him backtracking. "I mean, I'll have to look into it, certainly. And Mr Ross should probably get checked out, even so. If there are any, er, peculiar side-effects, please do let me know. I'll do whatever I can to fix this." He winces, wringing his hands and casting a nervous glance at the door. "That's assuming there is, you know, um, anything to fix."

Both lawyers get the distinct impression that he isn't telling them everything, but let it drop for the time being as Mike's attempts to get on his feet give rise to an unsettling, piercing gasp.

Harvey immediately springs into action, deftly arranging Mike's arm so that it curls around his neck, shouldering the majority of his weight as the young man leans on him heavily.

Crushing his nose into the crook of Harvey's collarbone, Mike sniffs miserably in a way he's not altogether sure is a blatant shot at garnering sympathy as he limps towards the front of the building where Ray is no doubt waiting.

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><p>His examination is brief but thorough, and Mike is reassured that everything is as it should be, with the exception of a slight bruising of his ankle, which should clear up in about a week or so, so long as he doesn't overexert himself and keeps an ice-bag readily available.<p>

Oh, and rumour has it, his metabolism is operating at a pace that's a bit faster than usual, oddly enough, which is apparently nothing to be concerned about. He may need to eat an additional snack or two, but beyond that, it should have little to no effect on his everyday life.

There's also a variety of cuts and bruises littering his legs and a particularly nasty gash on Mike's palm where a shard of glass was kind enough to embed itself. It's bad enough to warrant a bandage, but not so severe as to leave any scarring. He's just pissed because it'll hurt like a bitch every time he uses his crutches.

And because Mike is an idiot, he lets it go.

Harvey gives him the rest of the day off, which he is eternally grateful for, and Mike merely returns to his rundown apartment, snatches a bag of frozen peas from his freezer and falls face-first onto his mattress after remembering to ensure that his foot is vaguely elevated, plonked upon a threadbare, lumpy cushion.

He sleeps until his alarm beeps the next morning, waking to find himself tangled up in damp sheets with mushy peas squished into his pyjama bottoms after the meagre bag bust during the night, with a blackened ankle that's even more troublesomely tender than beforehand.

Mike hazardously pulls on his suit and sloppily loops his tie around his neck, flinching as his pants leg snags on his toe and causes his ankle to twist upwards at an angle he's sure will come back to haunt him later.

There's not enough time for breakfast, so Mike chugs his coffee in one go and stuffs some energy bars into his messenger bag that he then slings over his shoulder, thankful for the three cans of redbull he still has stashed somewhere at his cubicle.

Hopping on one foot towards his door where he had heedlessly dumped his crutches the day before, Mike casts a single, mournful look towards the vacant space devoid of his beloved bicycle, before resigning himself to catching a stinkin' taxi and stepping out into the brisk, September morning with minimal sunshine.

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><p>What it really boils down to, in the end, is that Mike leads a rather fast-paced lifestyle and following the initial panic, it seems silly to dwell on a little accident at a lab that may or may not beget grave consequences. The younger man basically resumes working and carries on as normal, because that's what is to be expected and Mike's response is entirely reasonable.<p>

What else is there to do but keep going?

The changes are subtle at first. So subtle, indeed, that they are virtually undetectable, if he's frank. But sometimes he likes to ignore that fact, because then it's simply easier to call himself stupid and be done with it.

Though even he'll acknowledge that that's delusional.

Because he's not 'done with it.' And he never will be.

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><p>Mike hobbles into the bullpen twenty minutes late, carefully manoeuvring around the sharp corners and curious onlookers to his desk, where a mountainous stack of unstable briefs lurk.<p>

Heaving a despondent sigh, he uncaps his highlighter with his teeth and props his leg up onto a spare chair that he'd painstakingly dragged over, dropping onto his seat and firing up his computer.

An hour into his scuffle with some stupid files that _refuse_ to diminish in volume, as he taps the rhythm to some classic Fleetwood Mac on his kneecap, Mike snaps back to reality with a jolt when his earbuds are lightly tugged from behind.

"Jesus," he cries in surprise, hand pressed against his chest. "Rachel, don't _do_ that," he pants, breaths wild and erratic. "Are you _trying_ to scare the crap out of me?"

Easily disregarding his indignation, the indifferent paralegal traces her finger absently along the divider.

"Hey, Doofus," Rachel grins. "What's with the crutches?"

"Hurt my ankle," Mike half-shrugs.

"I can see that." She rolls her eyes disdainfully. When he doesn't automatically launch into an explanation, she clarifies, "I want to know how. _How_ did you hurt your ankle?"

"Oh, you know," he glances nonchalantly down at his nails, "Through totally manly deeds such as hunting for boar and occasionally slaying a few hostile enemies. In between trekking through deadly woods with only a single carved knife for protection and fending off ravenous wolves, of course."

"You mustn't have been all that proficient, then, if you're wounded," she points out with a chuckle. "What'd you do? Trip on a twig? Run into a vengeful Red Riding Hood?"

"Um," Feigning insult, Mike coughs, "No. It was a battle," he grandly announces, "_To the death_-"

Lips twitching, she purses her lips and nods. "Between you and a squirrel?"

"-Between _myself_," he glares, "And a fearsome huntsman with a flair for archery-"

"Archery, yeah, I can see that," Rachel allows, bowing her head in consideration. "Because obviously we're living in the dark ages…"

"-And while he put up a worthy fight, ultimately, I emerged victorious, walking away-"

"Limping, technically-"

"With only _this **measly** injury,"_ he declares, blue eyes sparkling, and as Rachel laughs unreservedly at his inanity.

Stifling a smile, Mike interlaces his hands behind his head and lounges against in his chair idly, drawling, "It was epic."

"I'm sure it was," the amused woman says indulgently, grinning widely. "Now how about we rewind the last couple minutes and you tell me what _really_ happened, 'kay?"

"But where's the fun in that?" Mike shoots back, tilting his head and looking up at her with a wicked smile teasing his lips.

"Oh, come on," Rachel moans, appearing genuinely put out, "Are you seriously not going to tell me?"

"Nope," he makes a popping sound with his mouth, shaking his head smugly, "Chicks dig the whole enigmatic thing, right?" He shrugs. "I like the air of mystery."

"Please, do yourself a favour and never let me hear you utter the word 'dig,' ever again, alright? It's not 2007," Rachel tells him, pulling a face. "Besides, you know I'll just find out from Donna."

Mike scowls, smirk falling. "Donna wasn't even there-"

"Donna knows all."

"Yeah, but this was-"

"_Everything_."

As Rachel gives a taunting laugh and saunters off in the direction of the all-knowing Goddess, Mike sourly puckers his brows and eventually retorts, "Joke's on you! It wasn't even a secret, anyway!"

* * *

><p><strong>-0-o-0-o-0-<strong>

* * *

><p>The next day - presumably following her standard gossip-gorge with Donna - Rachel casually drops by his desk to ask how his ankle is faring and when Mike tells her its pesky, non-stop throbbing is turning out to be rather irritating, the ordinarily unconcerned paralegal's face twists in sympathy and she pats him on the head, before rummaging around in her handbag, clearly searching for something in particular, and extracting a brightly-coloured lollipop.<p>

Rachel then offers a kind-hearted smile and his eyebrows fly up in shock as she streaks her fingers through his hair and hands him the sugary treat with a lilted, "Here you go, pet. Feel better soon."

* * *

><p><strong>-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-<strong>

**-o-0-o- Louis -o-0-o-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

><p>Mike is suspicious.<p>

It's his third day back at work since his little accident and not one of the associates have said anything to him. There have been no 'subtle' gibes about his clumsiness, nobody has tried to kick his clutches out from underneath him as he's walking by to knock off his balance. Nor has anyone seized them when Mike's attention is diverted only to burst in hysterics as he absentmindedly reaches for them and falls over.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

He's not sure why they're all keeping their distance, but it's certainly not out of pity.

If he's honest, it's unnerving.

What's worse is that Mike can't forever be on guard waiting for them to strike at any moment. He did his best to be vigilant in the beginning but his commitment soon slipped. He wishes they would just hurry up and get it over and done with already.

Even stranger, his colleagues have rarely even met his gaze these past few days and Mike desperately wants to get to the bottom of it, but none of them will _speak _to him.

He's at a serious loss as to what to do.

Then, utterly out of the blue, Louis decides to pay him a visit.

"Mike, my office. Now," he barks as he strides past, not even slowing, while the taken aback associate grapples for his crutches. Sweeping his gaze over the bullpen, Mike notes that he _finally_ has the other's attention, but now that he does, he's not feeling all that thrilled about it.

That really should have been his first clue.

When he eventually catches up to Louis, the other man is kind enough to hold the door open for him and as they both take their seats and Mike wipes sweat from his forehead, the junior partner watches him closely in a way that only heightens his nervousness.

Sucking on his inner cheek, Mike bites down on hard enough to draw blood.

"Relax," Louis chuckles, fluttering a careless hand, and since when did he try to put people's minds at ease? Shit, he's firing him, isn't he?

As if sensing his thoughts, he calmly assures, "No-one is getting fired."

The tension between Mike's shoulder blades reluctantly subsides until all that remains is a tiny prick at the back of his neck, alerting him that everything is not as it should be.

"Then why did you want to speak with me?" Mike wonders, wincing as his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries to appear assertive.

It doesn't work.

"You know, you can come to me about anything," Louis remarks, fingers steepled thoughtfully under his chin. "I know, I give you a hard time, Mike, but your sense of security at this firm is very important to me. I want you to feel comfortable working alongside your fellow associates in the bullpen and will do whatever needs be to ensure that you do."

What the hell?

"Where is this coming from?" Mike frowns. "I like working here, Louis. You don't need to do whatever… _this_ is."

"Mike," the junior partner persists, raising his brows in a '_come on' _gesture. "It has come to my attention that certain individuals here at Pearson Hardman are taking their hazing rituals a little too seriously. I want you to know that it's been dealt with and disciplinary action has been taken."

Mike shoots up in his chair. "Disciplinary action?" he splutters, jaw hanging. "For what? For _who_? What _on earth_ are you talking about?"

"Gregory and Kyle have been suspended for two weeks, pending further investigation," he explains and Mike's heart drops. "Three days ago, I overheard them discussing a handful of their…" He pauses, lip curling in distaste, "More imaginative past pranks as well as preparing another. I won't go into details, but let's just say, it involved your recent injury."

The younger man blanches.

Louis nods slowly, seeming to agree with all the words that pass silently between them. "Naturally, I was furious. I spoke with some other associates-" Christ, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? "-While most denied participation, some were smart enough to own up then and there. Their punishment isn't quite so severe-"

"Not everyone knew about this!" Mike interrupts, panicked. "There were only a few chief culprits and some others that occasionally joined in!"

"As I am well aware," Louis soothes in a voice much more gentle than he thought the man capable of. "Don't worry, Mike. It has all been taken care of. However," His tone suddenly changes, harder and entirely unyielding, "If anything like this occurs again, you will come and inform me directly, Mike. I won't have you suffering in silence. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," he mumbles, gazing dropping to the floor, before snapping up to the other man's in horror. "Wait, does Harvey know about this?" he gasps.

"I haven't spoken with him yet."

Overwhelmingly relieved, Mike droops as if all of his energy has been zapped out of him. "Oh, thank God," he breathes.

Confused, Louis repeats, "Thank... God?"

"You can't tell him, Louis," Mike blurts, shaking his head wildly. "It's too embarrassing. I'll never live it down!"

The junior partner appears conflicted, biting his lip testily. "Mike, I don't know if that's such a good-"

"_Please_, Louis?" he begs, whipping out the full force of his puppy-dog eyes. "Please don't say anything?"

There's no way anyone could resist that look.

Heaving a sigh and immediately regretting the decision, Louis grudgingly agrees, "If you wish."

Ten minutes later when Mike returns to the associate's bullpen, he's startled to find that instead of experiencing an inordinate amount of guilt, he feels totally at ease for the first time in weeks.

* * *

><p><strong>-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-<strong>

**-o-0-o- Donna -o-0-o-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

><p><em><span>Tuesday:<span>_

* * *

><p>"Hey, Donna," Mike greets sweetly, an animated beam lighting up his face, "Is Harvey in?"<p>

She types continuously on the computer, not sparing a single glance. "Nope."

He falters, smile falling. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Nope."

"Can I… wait... in his office?" Mike hedges, bracing himself for a rejection. "I swear, I won't even _look_ at his records this time."

She pauses, darting fingers halting.

Gazing at him in such open fondness that he actually feels his cheeks warming, Donna bestows a gracious smile. "Sure."

* * *

><p><em><span>Wednesday:<span>_

* * *

><p>"Here are those briefs Harvey wanted," he rasps in a breathy rush of preoccupation, dumping them on the edge of Donna's desk and twisting around to leave without delay. He has another stack of files to be completed and the deadline is fast approaching.<p>

"Mike, wait up!" Donna urges, hurrying around to his side and laying a hand on his back to stop him. "How are you feeling?" she asks gently.

He jerks a little in surprise.

"I'm fine," he replies slowly, brows knitting. "My ankle isn't as painful today."

"That's great, sweetie," she says _non-_sarcastically. "Just be careful on those crutches, okay? No more barrelling down the hallway in a hurry, you hear me?"

Mike's eyes constrict in mystification, as he tentatively agrees, "Okay…"

"Good boy." Donna taps him on the head. And then she returns to her desk and he carefully makes his way back to his and it's only when he's seated again that it registers.

Did Donna seriously just call him sweetie?

* * *

><p><em><span>Thursday:<span>_

* * *

><p>He's not even surprised when Donna materializes in the bullpen that afternoon and passes him a plain white, square container with a note slapped on top.<p>

He scans it quickly, rolling his eyes after he does so.

_Donna told me I ought to feed you again. If you try to thank me, I _will_ punch you - Harvey__  
><em>

Popping the lid about an inch, Mike leans down and peers into the contents warily.

Above him, Donna laughs at his antics, then elucidates, "It's a bacon and cheese panini, moron. Completely poison-free, I made sure of it."

Okay…This is getting weird.

"Is this… is this a trick?" he can't help but ask.

Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head and clucks, "No, of course not. What do you take me for?"

_Honestly? I have no idea._

Unsure if the woman is genuinely hurt or not, Mike schools his features into something resembling more of a smile than a grimace and offers neutrally, "It smells wonderful."

"Good, because you seriously need some more meat on those bones," And there's a strange, reprimanding quality to her tone that Mike doesn't understand in the least. "Now eat up," she suddenly commands, levelling him with a threatening glare, "Before it gets cold."

Then Donna pinches his cheeks and grins, before flicking her hair over her shoulder and strolling away without a backwards glance.

Mike has never been more bewildered in his life.

* * *

><p><strong>-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-<strong>

**-o-0-o- Harvey -o-0-o-**

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-**

* * *

><p>The first time Harvey calls him 'kiddo' as opposed to the usual 'kid,' Mike thinks nothing of it - a simple slip of the tongue, that's all. But the nickname seems to be cropping up more and more often lately.<p>

Still, Mike tells himself it doesn't mean anything. Maybe it's purely a natural progression? After all, there's not much difference. Just a bonus, 'do,' which on it's own doesn't stand for anything, either.

Or perhaps it's a sly dig at his childish, goofy ways? Though, if that were the case, Mike would imagine that the word would be soiled with derision and it isn't. If anything, it sounds bafflingly like an endearment.

Whichever it is, Mike continues to overlook the small adjustment in their relationship. Surely he's just being paranoid? It can't be denial if Mike's only ignoring the signs because _he's_ the one applying some sort of significance to them.

Then come the questions.

The first time, Harvey's enquiry is spoken so causally that Mike replies without thinking.

"Have you eaten yet?" he'd asked absently while flicking through a case file, eyebrows drawn together in total absorption and not even glimpsing up in expectation of an answer.

"No, I'll probably grab a hotdog or something later," he had shrugged while studying several papers of his own. "I've got tons to do."

"I'm heading out for lunch in a little while," Harvey mentioned, standing and buttoning his jacket, "You can tag along. But first, go pawn your work off on one of those Harvard losers."

And that was it. Non-negotiable.

That evening, after an enjoyable lunch where they'd bickered for the entire period, Harvey spots him rubbing his eyes and dismisses him then and there, muttering something about tired associates being useless associates, and it isn't until much later as he collapses onto his bed that Mike realises that his reason doesn't even remotely fly.

He's _constantly_ sleep-deprived and it has never troubled his boss before. In fact, if Mike ever complains about being tired, Harvey is well known for giving him a lecture on, 'Having What It Takes,' or if he's on the move, has a preference for straightforward mottos such as, 'Suck it up,' or even, 'Stop being such a Goddamn wuss.'

And of course, _he_ would never hire a wuss.

The questions are endless.

_"How much sleep are you getting?"_

_"Do you need another break?"_

_"Is your head hurting again?"_

_"You hungry?"_

Mike _thinks_ he means well, and it's sort of nice, even if this continuous interrogation can become a tad embarrassing now that it no longer ceases in other's company.

It's definitely out of character, but Mike attributes his unexpected niceness to a potential mid-life crisis or something and forces himself to stop fixating on it, because God help him if he were to get attached to this considerate-ish version of Harvey.

Mike hates how pleasure bubbles up in his chest when his mentor praises his work or how he has no chance of burying his sheepish smile when this Harvey-impostor actually _ruffles his hair _in the middle of a courtroom full of witnesses.

This miraculous transformation is never going to last and he doesn't _want_ to enjoy it while it does.

And sure enough - on that Friday - everything soon changes.

Just not in the way he'd begun to expect.

Mike rouses in the morning feeling somewhat… off. He can't quite explain what it is, but his mind is processing information at a much slower rate than is customary and his limbs are curiously heavy, despite the fact that he's gotten more sleep this week than he usually would in two.

His hand is hurting awful bad, but he doesn't dare inspect it out of fear that there might be something amiss. Mike is already running late - late even for him - and doesn't have time to brood over a silly little graze on his palm.

When he eventually arrives, wobbling a little and cursing his stupid ankle, Mike discovers that his desk is a lot less cluttered than normal. It takes several moments for the dissimilarity to dawn on him.

Both Harvey and Louis have assigned him _very_ little paperwork.

He frowns. Had this been the case yesterday, Mike would have marched to their separate offices - well, shuffled - and demanded to know why he is being treated differently. It isn't as if there's nothing to do. Everyone else is up to their eyeballs. But as it is, Mike simply sags on his chair and makes a start on his own reduced share, feeling grudgingly grateful as he bears in mind that he is a bit below par.

He works steadily through lunch, breaking momentarily for a quick coffee run, and doesn't see Harvey - or anyone, really - until after two when he leaves the bullpen on stiff, shaky legs to head down to research for a specific case file.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he's suddenly feeling very weak and his breathing's off and nothing _looks_ right - his vision is all weird and fuzzy.

Tremors raid Mike's hands as they grip the handles of his clutches and his head feels fuller than usual as he suppresses a yawn and wearily swipes at his eyes.

Completely out of nowhere, something - or rather _someone_ - blocks his path and he awkwardly attempts to evade them, but ends up tripping over his own feet, which does nothing to help his churning stomach.

Hands suddenly grip his upper biceps and Mike finds himself blinking at a hazy shape he thinks might be a person.

_"Mike?_ Mike!" A female's voice rings out beside him and he thinks that, maybe, he ought to pay attention to it. "Are you okay?" Mike nods dazedly. A sharp tut is his response. "No, you're not. Don't lie to me. Do you need me to-"

His legs buckle underneath him and the only thing that keeps him from collapsing is the fact that he is now clinging onto Rachel for dear life, face smushed against her left shoulder.

"Holy crap," she sounds abnormally uneasy, "Look, it's okay, Mike, hold on. We'll get you some help-"

Another wave of dizziness crashes over him and he burbles, "Think I'm gonna just sit down." Which he does, plopping down right there in the middle of the main hallway with a thump, to Rachel's immediate displeasure.

"Oh, God," she mutters, squatting down beside the flopping, wayward associate and holding him upright. "What should I do? What should I- Oh, hey! Harold!" The sudden shout causes him to flinch. "Down here!"

A distant gasp is heard. "Is that- Oh, my God!" Footsteps quickly approach. "What happened? Is he alright?"

"I don't know. He just fell down!" Rachel exclaims. "I need you to go get Harvey, Harold. Could you do that? Please?"

"No problem," he replies with obvious nervousness. "I-I just-"

"It'll be fine, Harold," she tries to reassure him, but it sounds as though she's rolling her eyes. "He's not going to bite."

"He _might_."

"No, he won't. This is Mike we're talking about-"

"Yes, which is exactly why I'm worried! You know what he's like-"

"Guys!" Nothing happens. "_Guys_!" Mike frowns as they fall silent. "Look, I d-don't need H'rvey, okay? M'fine."

"Oh, sweetie," she sighs, a direct contrast to her previous tone. Rachel's voice is as soft as silk as she palms his cheek. "You don't need to put on a brave face. It's okay. Look, Harold is going to go fetch Harvey and everything's going to be just fine, right, Harold?"

"Right," he chimes obediently, before rushing off before Mike can stop him.

"Rach, listen to me," he grumbles, a knot forming in his stomach, because why would she assume he'd want Harvey? Or that Harvey would even care? All of this is seriously beginning to freak him out. "I don't need m'boss to come kiss it all better."

He brushes down his suit and attempts to stand, but she swiftly pushes him back down. "Careful!" she screeches in panic. Then she takes a deep breath and visibly composes herself. "You have to sit still, okay, Mike? Just sit real still for a few minutes 'till we see what's wrong. Can you do that for me?"

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong with _you_?" Mike counters, deeply disturbed by her behaviour even in his general disorientation. "Seriously," he slurs, "It's no big deal."

"Shh," she quietens him, not listening in the least, "Harvey's on his way. He'll be here any second. Don't worry."

_Yeah,_ Mike thinks, _Maybe he'll knock some sense into you. I can't wait to see what shade of purple his face turns when he realises that you're _stopping_ me from going back to work._

His mind to mouth filter mustn't be functioning properly, because Rachel suddenly gapes at him incredulity, so obviously he wasn't quite as silent as he thought.

"You're not thinking straight," she says decisively, and then, in an irritating voice he finds extremely patronizing, "Harvey would _never_ react that way, you silly goose."

"If you say so," he mutters, because it's really not worth arguing over when everything in the room is revolving.

"Rachel? What are you doin-" Another nasally voice enters the equation and as he has now come to expect, blurts, "Is that _Mike_?"

"Yes, Louis," Rachel coolly replies, "And no, I don't know what's going on."

"Does Harvey know?" he immediately frets, while Mike inwardly rolls his eyes.

"I sent Harold to go get him," she informs him, then frowns. "He should really be back by now."

Louis chuckles. "Yes, well, Harvey probably-"

"Went ballistic," she finishes, nodding. "I figured."

"Strange priorities, don't you think?" the junior partner comments as he, too, sinks to the ground in his expensive suit and assists Rachel in sustaining the young man.

"It's the only time I ever see him lose his cool," she shrugs. "And it only lasts for, like, two minutes."

"Eh, on average."

"What the hell are you guys _talking_ about?" Mike asks, because, _really?_ "Harvey wouldn't give two shits if I got hit by a car every single morning for a week as long as I got his work completed at a tolerable standard."

Trying to be inconspicuous but failing miserably, the two exchange worried looks over his head.

"Actually, that's not fair," he babbles. "Sometimes he tells that I'm competent and one time, he even let me go home early for my Grammy's birthday." His lips hitch upwards a fraction. "That was nice of him."

Before either bewildered party can reply, another freakin' person is added to the mix.

Damn him for choosing the main fucking corridor.

"Mike, sweetie, are you okay?" Donna coos as she hurries to his side and bends down to his eye-level. She fusses over him, sweeping fingers over his hair, and clearly tallying the most prominent concerns - namely his flushed face, glassy eyes and slumped-over frame. "I am so sorry, honey, but Harvey's not here right now. He had court this morning and only finished up about twenty minutes ago. I called him and he's on his way, but I'm afraid, it's going to take at minimum another ten minutes before he gets here."

"For the last time," he groans drowsily, "I _don't care_." He airily waves a hand. "_He_ doesn't care. What_ever."_

Silence.

At Donna's stricken expression, Louis jumps in with a delightfully untrue, "It's the fever talking. He doesn't know what he's saying."

Except that Mike _does_ know what he's saying and as painful as it is, that's the truth. They need to stop acting as if Harvey is some knight in shinning armour or God forbid, _his father_, because he's confused enough as it is and Mike really doesn't wish to get his hopes up for nothing.

Harvey is simply going to waltz in here and yell at him for sitting on the ground and being ill and then he'll either order him to get out or go back to work, depending on how generous he's feeling.

It doesn't matter what these naive, little souls believe - Mike knows better.

The next five minutes pass agonizingly slowly and as time wears on, his condition only worsens - to the point where he's not totally aware of anything.

It's not long before he becomes fed up with all of the supportive touches from his co-workers and Mike shoves away from them, unmoved by their hurt or shock or confusion or whatever, finding the nearest wall and crashing against it.

He draws his legs to his chest and pushes his forehead against his knees, hugging them fiercely with one arm while his bandaged hand forms a fist. He then tucks this hand under his nose and chews on his curled thumb while he waits for the person he's forgotten he hadn't wanted.

Mike _really_ wants Harvey and he's sure the sentiment must pass his lips at least once. ("Want H'vey," the ailing kid whimpers. "I know, sweetheart," they collectively grimace, "Hang on, he's coming.")

Then, finally - _finally_ - an overwrought voice calls out, "Donna, I got your message. Where is he-"

He halts, eyes wide as he takes in the scene.

"Harvey, wait-" Donna catches him by the arm. She pauses, biting her lip. "He's a little…" she trials off, glancing back at the other two with a look he can't decipher. "Mike's not quite himself," she finally settles on. "Just-just don't take everything he says personally, alright?"

Harvey shoots her a suspicious look, tapered with confusion, before turning back to Mike huddled in the corner with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He warily draws nearer - like approaching a wounded animal. The last thing he wants to do is startle the poor kid.

"Hey, buddy," Harvey murmurs, smiling faintly even as his brows furrow. He crouches down in front of Mike's hunched, defensive form and automatically ghosts a hand soothingly through his hair. "Donna here says you aren't feeling too good."

"M'fine," he insists, but it doesn't sound all that convincing when mumbled, "They're bein' st'pid."

"You don't look fine," the other man notes as he begins to rub his back, "What's the matter?"

Mike just nuzzles his kneecap and refuses to answer, while Harvey's heart constricts at the action.

Placing a hand on the kid's damp forehead, Harvey is unsurprised by the intense heat he finds there.

He sighs.

"Mike?" Harvey calls gently, squeezing his shoulder slightly and trying to generate a response from the feverish and increasingly distressed associate. "Do you think it would be alright if I took a quick peek at your hand?" he requests, pitching his voice so that it is unthreateningly smooth and collected. "Just for a bit? I promise, I'll be really gentle."

"Why?" Mike asks blearily, slowly raising his head and shifting so that his hand is protectively cradled to his chest.

"I just wanna see it for a second."

"S'not sore," Mike argues, curling in on himself further. Harvey winces. "Don't need to look at it."

"Please, Mike?" he persists, attempting to cloak his desperation but not quite succeeding. "It's okay if your hand's hurting a little. You can show me. I won't get mad, I swear."

Mike sniffles, gazing at him doubtfully as he rubs his nose with the back of his hand, before very, very slowly offering it to Harvey. Unconsciously, he begins gnawing on his other knuckles.

"Good boy," Harvey praises quietly, ruffling his hair. He carefully unravels the bandage and peels the sticky material back, letting it spill over his fingers.

He hisses.

"Aw, kiddo," the senior partner sighs, gut clenching. "You've really done a number on yourself this time." The skin surrounding the crusted gash is angry and red and swollen, with dribbles of pus oozing from the centre. It's hasn't been cleaned in God knows how long and looks painful as fuck. "How long's it been like this, huh?"

When Mike doesn't say anything, only continues to nip at his skin, - tugging it anxiously between his teeth in a way that causes Harvey to swallow hard at his acute vulnerability - he prods more firmly, "Mike, how long have you been feeling bad?"

There's silence for a moment as Mike chews over this. Literally.

"Dunno," he finally admits, staring at the floor resolutely and shrugging. "Couple days?"

"Why am I not surprised?" Harvey mutters, before supplying to someone in the background, "We need to get him to a hospital. Fast."

Wrapping an arm around the young man's shoulders, he returns his attention to Mike.

"Okay, kiddo," he coaxes, "We're gonna have to move you now, you listening? You can't stay here."

Mike frowns. "How come?"

"'Cause we've gotta go get your hand cleaned up, silly," Harvey explains, ironing out the worry in his expression and forcing his voice upwards in pitch, injecting a light-heartedness he doesn't feel as he adds, "Come on. Up we get."

"Don't wanna," Mike snivels, water pooling in his eyes as he fails to understand why he has to leave the busy hallway.

Harvey hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at Donna, who makes a vaguely reassuring gesture he translates as, _'You're doing great! Just keep doing what you're doing.' _

"It's alright, champ. I'll help you, don't worry."

Scowl deepening, he whines, "No!"

"Mike," Harvey warns, mouth tightening, "Don't be difficult. You wanna feel better, don't you?"

"No," he huffs with a stubborn pout. "M'kay."

"Well, you might be okay, but your hand's certainly not," Harvey relates and seeing that the message isn't getting through, decides to change tactics with a calmly tacked on, "And you know what will happen if you don't get that checked out, don't you?"

Mike peers up at him over the tops of his knees.

Taking in Harvey's significant look, his curiosity gets the better of him, and his eyes quickly narrow.

"W-what?" he inquires timidly.

Harvey leans down closer, glancing off to the side conspiringly, before his gaze snaps back to him.

"If you don't get that cut examined…" He pauses dramatically, voice slow and cautioning, as he announces, "Your hand is going to _turn_ **_green_**."

Mike pales.

"Harvey," Donna quickly intervenes from behind, slapping him on the back of the head in admonishment. "Don't you dare! You're scaring the poor darling."

Eyes wide and jaw slack, Mike gazes at him wonderingly and asks, "Like… like Hulk?"

Okay, so not what he'd expected. But he can work with this.

...Maybe.

"Yup," Harvey nods confidently, "_Exactly_ like the Hulk."

Mike seems to genuinely contemplate this, head titled as his thumb sneaks further into his mouth.

"Only gross?" he ventures, far too interested for his own good.

"Well, yeah. The only difference is, you won't have any super strength or anger issues and the rest of your skin will be normal."

When he puts it that way, it suddenly doesn't sound so cool anymore.

"Don't want a green hand," Mike says in an unsteady voice close to tears. "H'vey, don't want a green hand!"

"Then the solution is simple," the older man remarks, shrugging. "All you have to do is come with me."

It appears his plan worked a little _too_ well, because Mike is still uncertain.

He peeps up at his boss from under his lashes, sucking absentmindedly on his thumb and drool spilling over as he momentarily removes the digit to ask, "Really?"

"Really, really," Harvey grins. He rises to gracefully to his feet and holds out a hand for Mike to take.

"Come on, pal. Better hurry."

As the full implication of his words hit, Mike stands up so fast, Harvey has to quickly reach out to stop him from toppling over.

* * *

><p><strong>-0-o-0-o-0-<strong>

* * *

><p>"Harvey, when I wake up tomorrow, do you think my hand will be green?" His pinched face is a cross between aghast and oddly fascinated.<p>

"No," Harvey chuckles, flicking on the bedside lamp and adjusting the brightness to the lowest setting. "No, kiddo, I'm pretty sure you're outta the woods at this stage in the game."

After waiting around for two hours to see Harvey's doctor who was insanely busy, Mike was prescribed a short course of antibiotics to take for the next seven days and Harvey was then shown how to redress the wound. He'd already decided that there wasn't a chance in hell that he was letting Mike out of his sight for the foreseeable future, so when the time came to leave, the worried lawyer directed the taxi driver straight to his condo, texting Donna to pick up some things for Mike as the kid in question slobbered all over his shoulder where he'd fallen asleep at the beginning of the journey.

Thankfully, Mike's temperature had been steadily decreasing ever since Harvey coaxed some ibuprofen into him beforehand, but it was still high enough for him to be somewhat apprehensive. By that stage, he no longer minded coming across as 'caring,' because the truth is that he _does_ care and it is a little overwhelming. However he wanted to spin, justify or defend it, Harvey was taking Mike home and that's all there was to it.

Together, they'd watched a few episodes of Doctor Who and Sherlock, as the pup curled up on the sofa, head resting on Harvey's lap as he brushed a hand through his hair.

It was all rather peaceful - though Harvey suspects that tomorrow when the kid's not quite so out of it, there will be a definite fight for independence.

A fight he's not sure why he wants so badly to win.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, the senior partner steps back and straightens, heading for the door and adding, "Now no more talk of green hands, okay? Donna will kill me."

"What about my feet?" Mike ponders. "Will they turn green?"

Harvey smothers a smile as he turns back.

"No, your feet will be fine," he spells out patiently. "They don't have any scratches on them."

"What about my legs? They have scratches," he points out, unwilling to let the subject drop.

_Oh, for the love of God._

Harvey scrubs a hand over his face and reluctantly agrees, "I suppose they do. But not the same _kind_ of scratches."

Mike's mouth forms an '_O'_. "So I might never get that same kind of scratch again?" he clarifies, frowning thoughtfully and clutching the bed sheets closer. "The one that turns people green?"

"That's right. They're special scratches."

He had thought that this was full-proof logic, but apparently he was wrong, because Mike only becomes more agitated, nibbling this time on an index finger. "But how are you meant to _know_?" And that's a fair question, Harvey reasons, but one he most certainly does not have an answer to, since he's too damn tired to make one up.

"You just do," he half-heartedly appeases, becoming more irritable by the second against his better judgement. His voice is curt when he says, "Just go to sleep, kiddo."

"_You_ know, though, don't you, Harvey? Y-you'll tell me, won't you?" And goddamn it if that _trying-really-hard-to-be-brave-but-obviously-terrified _expression doesn't make him feel exceptionally guilty, piercing a hole in his unjust annoyance and deflating his rigid posture instantaneously.

"Of course, I will," the older man softly assures. He settles down on the edge of the bed and begins stroking the kid's hair in comfort. "No-one's turning green on my watch."

Fears temporarily placated, Mike focuses his attention on greater questions, like: "Why green, though? Green is such an icky colour, Harvey. Why not yellow or blue - blue is my favourite," he says like Harvey doesn't already know as much. "O-or what about orange or p-?" He suddenly gasps. "Harvey, is this why bruises are sometimes purple?"

He scarcely restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

"No, Mike, that's different," he responds mostly evenly, "It's natural for bruises to change colour."

And all of a sudden Mike's frightened again.

Big blue eyes boring into his, Mike says anxiously, "B-but you can check them, too, can't you? To be sure?"

"I can indeed," he smiles. "Now, close your eyes and try to get some sleep, buddy." He drapes the blanket over him and pushes silky hair out of his face. "I'll be right across the hall if you need me."

"M'kay," Mike yawns, clumsily knuckling his eyes. "Night, Harvey."

"Goodnight, Mike," Harvey murmurs, gazing at the sleepy kid with tender eyes as warmth blossoms in his chest. "Sweet dreams."

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><p><em>Thank-you very much for reading.<em>

_It is a bit longer than I expected - but oh, well. Hope you enjoyed it :)_


	3. Try Your Best

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**CHAPTER TWO:**

Try Your Best

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><p><strong>AN: **I know that this is all very confusing - hell, even I have my moments of befuddlement - but please bear with me. Everything should be explained in the chapter after this. To clarify, though, Mike is not 'deaged' as of yet, in the sense that he's suddenly ten years younger. It's a gradual process. I do tend to focus primarily on the reactions of those around him, which I know a lot of people are completely bewildered by, and an explanation will be provided for this also. It _will_ be weird, though. That much I can tell you. Consider this an official warning ;)

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>Moaning into a downy pillow, Mike rolls over and wriggles under the duvet he'd kicked off amid fitful splashes of hot and cold, now crumpled to his right, the movement causing drool to pool over onto the thumb that is - hang on.<p>

…Rooted in his mouth?

That couldn't be.

Mind still clogged with sleep, Mike pokes the soggy digit with his tongue and ascertains that - yup, his thumb his definitely wedged in there, and has been for some time judging by the deepened creases.

All of a sudden, he is wide awake.

And Mike doesn't like the feeling.

His eyes dart open, swinging around the pitch-black room, and when the stifling darkness doesn't fade, Mike's breaths stutter to a halt.

Curling his hands into taut fists, the desire to plant his thumb in his mouth is unbearable as he lies there, twitching in the silence and trying not to imagine sinister, murky creatures prowling the shadows of the bedroom.

An unfamiliar feeling claws up his dry, itchy throat…

Images wait to taunt him as he closes his eyes…

His heart races while his stomach experiments with straining somersaults.

It takes Mike a while to figure out that he's really just scared of the dark.

He feels so stupid.

Not that that stops him from teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Mike?" a faintly concerned voice probes as light spills from the doorway, "What are you doing up?"

Mike jumps about a mile in the air, yanking his hand away from where it had been deviously crawling towards his mouth and hiding his slippery thumb behind his back.

Unfortunately, the abrupt action results in another horrid dizzy spell and he lurches forward.

"Oh no, you don't." Hands quickly flatten against his torso and lower spine, gently easing the disorientated young man onto the strange, bobbing planes of what he eventually comes to recognize as a man's chest. The mattress sinks downwards and soothing fingers arc through his limp hair.

"Careful, kiddo," the voice that is mysteriously reminiscent of Harvey's rebukes, soft and inflected. "You have to take it easy. I don't want you getting any nasty bumps on your head, understand?" As he speaks, one hand lightly runs up and down his back. "I can't imagine that'd be much fun."

"H'vey?" Mike frowns, and for some reason, his words trip up and fall together, groggy and inarticulate.

"Shh…" he responds, beginning to sway slightly. "It's alright. Close your eyes." He reaches around Mike to capture something from the bedside table. Harvey then expertly massages along Mike's jaw-line, persuading his agitatedly gritted teeth to loosen long enough for him to push a cool thermometer beyond his lips.

"Atta boy." Turning his head in a pitiful attempt to dislodge the foreign item, a hoarse whimper slips as Mike sleepily burrows into Harvey.

"Looks like your fever's gone up a bit," Harvey mutters to himself and for the life of him, Mike can't begin to understand what's going on. What...? How... What's he doing here? _Where_ is here?

_Is this even real?_

"I'm sorry, buddy," Harvey whispers, inspecting the readings as he strokes his hair. "I'll bet you're not feeling all that great at the moment, huh?"

Well, now that he mentions it, his head _is_ pounding a little excruciatingly.

"Here we go, junior. Drink up."

Next thing Mike knows, the chilled rim of a glass is being slowly tipped back against his mouth, water trickling down his throat so that he has no choice but to swallow. His chest expels a prickly cough much to his displeasure and Mike weakly cries out as his head revolts at the increase of pressure. There's rustling and then a couple of sugar-coated pills are being gulped down, too.

A thumb skims his cheek, erasing hot tears he hadn't even realized had fallen.

He wants... he wants...

He doesn't know _what_ he wants.

Mike's tired and itchy and he hurts all over - _hurts so much - _And there's this terrible, low keening sound, and Mike has a horrible hunch that it is originating from his own quivering throat.

_Don't leave me._

He grips a fistful of silky fabric and holds on for dear life.

"Shh," He's being rocked again, "It's okay, kiddo. Everything's fine. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I promise, I'm not planning on leaving." To Mike's astonishment, his boss almost sounds.. frazzled. "Just please, _please_ stop crying. I don't think I can stand it much longer."

...Huh.

_S_o this _is_ a dream, then?

Makes sense, all things considered.

Ha, like there's any way that _he_ would _cry_. In front of his **_boss,_** no less.

Mike hiccups.

"I know, I know - it's horrible." The voice is sickly sweet and the words are mumbled against his clammy temple, but Mike clings to it nonetheless.

_"Please,_ Mike, you have to calm down. That's got to be murder on your headache. Come on, work with me here. You're going to make yourself sick."

Peeling back his sticky lids and peeking up hazily, Mike is staggered by the sight of an anxious person accompanying the anxious voice.

"H'vey..." he snuffles, awkwardly flinging a hand at his boss' face, aided by no real strength, which Harvey easily catches with his own.

"Right here, bud."

Tiredly shaking his head, he says, "N-no sick."

Harvey doesn't answer.

"No be sick," Mike mumbles once more, hand to his mouth. "M'kay."

This time the older man's brows bunch together in a troubled frown. Yet, before he can go about retesting the boy's temperature, Mike's chest undertakes a forceful heave and that's all the warning Harvey receives.

The halted sounds themselves are nauseating, never mind the stench, and even after the young associate rids himself of every single bite he'd taken the previous week, his stomach sportingly perseveres - almost to deter him from ever eating again - until all Mike feels is the burn of acid in the back of throat.

He's crying again - though whether or not he ever actually broke off in the first place is anyone's guess - but it's more delirious, husky whinging than anything else.

Harvey quickly nips to the bathroom and wets a washcloth, and on his return, he dabs the kid's forehead and wipes around his mouth.

With Mike sprawled between the bed and the floor, head lolling as he breathes hard and writhes weakly in agony, Harvey sets about stripping him of his sullied clothes. Chucking these in the wash, he gathers a clean pair of pyjama bottoms and an old, ratty t-shirt he never wears, then quickly slips it over Mike's head, guiding his arms through the correct holes with little help from the half-conscious boy and pulling on the bottoms.

Harvey doubts Mike is aware of much at this point, as he finishes cleaning the floor and changing the bed sheets - even when the young man begins rambling disjointedly, calling out for Harvey and begging him not to leave in such frenzied desperation that it takes all of Harvey's willpower to complete the task without running to his side and hugging the ill boy close.

"It's okay, Mike," he murmurs, heart faltering, "I'm right over here. I'm not going anywhere."

Afterwards, the lawyer bundles his associate in a thick, cosy blanket Donna had brought around earlier, along with a few other items Mike may require, before settling the pup against him and tucking his head under his chin.

Overcome with exhaustion, Mike eventually drifts off to sleep, but it's so light and restless that Harvey stays with him for a further hour, singing softly under his breath while he gently brushes the kid's dishevelled locks, and wondering: of the two of them, just who precisely is he soothing?

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><p>The following morning, Mike is somewhat more lucid.<p>

He staggers towards Harvey's couch in a daze, ignoring the protests of his ankle, and plops down.

Not only does he feel rotten, but Mike's sudden realisation that he has stayed the night at his boss's home and has _no_ _clue_ how that came to pass, has left him feeling considerably ill at ease. He's been here before, of course, but on neither occasion had Harvey given any indication that he was welcome. In all actuality, the older man had essentially banished him to the living area with an abundance of files and strict orders not to move unless there was a dire emergency.

He'd said (and Mike's quoting directly here), "Oh, and I know you'll probably be fraught with temptation, but could you strive to refrain from touching any of my most mind-blowing things? I heard the residue of neediness can be hard to scrub off."

The young associate hadn't taken offence - his prior thin-skinned inclinations now inured to these supercilious remarks - but had fretted about the prospect of damaging something and being instructed to replace it the entire time.

Shivering slightly, Mike wraps his arms around himself and debates making his way back to his apartment. He can't bike and wearing clothes that are definitely not his own, is obviously short of cash, so catching a cab is a clear no-go. Figuring it's early - the sunlight soaking the balcony radiant and fresh - Mike supposes that he _could_ walk the distance, but it's a long way and he's barefoot.

After ten straight minutes of mulling over the pros and cons, his genius solution is, "To hell with it, I can_so_ walk that far." Never mind the fact that the ability to walk that far is not really part of the dilemma. And that if it _were_, then he would undoubtedly lose.

Following a dubious moment where he'd stood and his legs nearly gave way, Mike slowly toddles towards the door and tries to yank it open. It doesn't unbolt. A few more unrewarding pulls and Mike is forced to re-evaluate the means of his breakout.

Alright, so the front door is vetoed, but how about…

Mike eyes the balcony, deliberating.

Maybe there's a fire escape?

He stumbles towards it impulsively and is pleasantly surprised when the door unlocks. One more step…

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" a panicked Harvey blurts from the hallway, hurrying to his side and shutting the door firmly.

"I… the-the balc'ny…" Mike explains unintelligibly.

"Mike, you are _not_ to go out there unsupervised, you hear me?" the older man gruffly prohibits, breathing roughly. "Not ever."

Unsatisfied with this ruling, he pouts. "Why?"

"Because it's not safe," Harvey tells him, dragging the confused boy to the couch and pushing him down. Immediately, he heads towards the guest room, fishing around in a drawer and plucking the bedding from the unruly bed, proceeding to smother Mike in them. "You're freezing," he accuses, arranging the blanket so that it protects Mike's ears, before producing a pair of Avengers-themed socks and stretching them over the kid's icy feet. "What are you doing out of bed, anyhow?" he soon chides, his dark eyes disapproving.

"I-it's six thirty," Mike informs him, yawning hugely.

"I am well aware of what time it is thanks to you," Harvey grumbles. "Though I don't see what that has to do with anything."

He shrugs. "Need to go."

"'Need to go?'" Harvey repeats with scrunched brows. "What in God's name gave you that idea?"

"U'ually go to th-the firm Satu'days," Mike coughs.

Harvey's expression clears.

Nodding in realisation, he gives a regretful smile. "I know you do," he hums. "But not today, okay? You need to rest and you can't do that while studying bylaws."

"Can too," he argues, sliding into a more comfortable position as his eyes flutter shut.

An amused smirk filling his voice, the senior partner indulges, "Sure, you can, kiddo."

Moments later, he's out.

The next time he wakes, Mike is _actually_ lucid.

His fever must have broken at some point, because his mind finally feels clear for the first time in days.

A quick glance at his hand tells him that his bandages have already been redressed and after a longer look around the condo, Mike spies a glass of water and two painkillers on the coffee table. His ankle is screaming awful bad, so he knocks these back gratefully, and with his crutches nowhere in sight, resigns himself to staying put on the sofa. It's not ideal, though, as boredom soon begins to set in. With little else to do, Mike picks up the nearby remote control and spends the next half hour channel surfing. He's too tired to commit to anything in particular, regardless of how impressed by the broad array of films and TV shows on offer he may be, and has to shake himself on numerous occasions to prevent dropping off to sleep.

Mike wishes he had something a tad more productive to keep him busy, but has to content himself with uninterestedly watching the TV with a bleary, unwavering gaze and snuggling into the soft material of his blanki-

Mike bolts upright and hastily scrambles away from the precariously soothing throw.

_Blankie?_ he shudders, sickened. Where the hell did _that_ come from?

"Mike? Kiddo, what's wrong?"

Swivelling around, he learns that Harvey is seated at the breakfast bar working from his laptop, apparently keeping an eye on him, and likely has been for a while. He hadn't even realised that he'd come in.

"Nothing," he grunts, sinking into the couch. "It's nothing."

Harvey isn't buying the lie, but luckily doesn't pursue it.

Instead, rising to his feet and turning to the refrigerator, he changes the subject altogether. "I made soup earlier. Do you think maybe you could manage a few spoonful's?" When the younger man simply pulls a face in response, he adds sternly, "You haven't eaten anything," and Mike knows then he hasn't got much choice in the matter.

"Sounds great," he says wryly.

The rest of the day passes similarly, with Harvey fussing over every little thing - from obsessively taking Mike's temperature to fretting over every paltry cough and stifled yawn with endless inquiries over the state of his physical well-being. When Mike dares approach the subject of going back to his apartment, Harvey is utterly uncompromising in his refusal, shooting the idea down at once. Mike would have argued harder had he not being feeling so unwell and had there not been a genuine possibility that Harvey would have a panic-induced heart attack if he did.

Though the worst part of the day, hands down, comes when Mike has to go the bathroom.

"Hey, Harvey?" he calls, "Do you happen to know what I did with my crutches?"

His boss frowns, thinking. "You know, I'm not actually sure, buddy. I must have forgotten to lift them before we left Pearson Hardman."

"Yeah... about that.." Mike says curiously, "How _did_ I get here?"

Harvey's scowl deepens. "You don't remember?"

Shrugging, he returns, "Should I?"

He can recall flashes here and there, but the events are too muddled and just plain _weird_ to follow. It's too difficult to know what was real and what wasn't.

"You _were_ pretty out of it," Harvey concedes, smirking. "I'll give you a run down of the basics. After the cut on your hand got infected, you collapsed in the hallway. Rachel found you, got some associate to go get me, who then told Donna," he lists in a bored tone while scrolling through emails on his cell. "Donna rang me, but I was otherwise engaged, and by the time I got there, you were in such bad shape that I took you straight to the hospital. There, you were given some low dose pain meds and antibiotics. After that, we came back here." Glancing up, Harvey shrugs, "That's pretty much it."

There are so many things wrong with that scenario that Mike doesn't know where to begin. What he says, though, is, "But back to the crutches predicament. If I didn't have them, then how did I get around?"

Harvey presents him with his most dry, patronizing look. "Because I carried you," he replies slowly as if between his ears, Mike only has empty space. "For the most part, anyway. They lent us a wheelchair in the hospital, which was a good thing too, because you were salivating _all_ over my shoulde-"

"Hold up," Mike interjects, appalled, "You did _what?"_

He rolls his eyes.

"Mike, you weigh about as much as a small teenager." Then his expression abruptly turns serious. _Too_ serious. "How much food do you eat, exactly? Actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Whatever it is, I'm doubling it. In fact, I've been contemplating making plans to see a nutritionist. Your needs are clearly not being met and even I can tell, you are significantly underwei-"

"Listen," Mike says tersely, bringing Harvey's freak-out (which was freaking Mike out) to a temporary standstill. "I don't need some damn lecture on my diet or lack thereof. What I _need_ is to go to the bathroom. So.. yeah." He starts to stand, but the other man quickly forces him back down.

"Did you not just hear what I said?" Harvey angrily objects. "I'll text Donna. She can collect the damn clutches. But for now, there is no way I am letting you walk on that ankle. You caused enough damage earlier on your little escapade."

"It's not that far-"

"It's far enough," he declares decisively. "Here, let me help you."

"I don't need _or want_ your help-"

"You'd rather soil yourself right here, then?" Harvey questions, eyebrows hoisted up in challenge. "Because that's what's going to happen."

"You're bluffing," Mike states shrewdly, eyes narrowed as he juts out his chin. "This couch is worth, what? A couple hundred thousand?_"_ He smirks, running a hand shamelessly along the armchair. "You'd really let me destroy this beautiful, _genuine,_ Italian leather?" As Harvey's bottom lip thins, he chuckles. "Didn't think so."

Eyes skewing in amusement, Harvey clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "Do you honestly think you can out-stubborn me, rookie? In a battle of wills, I _always_ come out on top."

"Well, you do have a fondness for settling," Mike points out. "How about we cut a deal?"

"Are you kidding me?"

A pause, then:

"I really need to pee."

Harvey outright laughs at that. "Then what do you propose we do? Because, evidently, I have the advantage here. You're a slave to the whims of your body. All I have to do is wait you out."

"But then you'd lose."

"Not if I time it right," he refutes with a playful grin. "The longer you put it off, the more desperate you'll become, until the shame of having your boss assist you is nothing compared to your need to go."

"_Or_," Mike pipes up, looking pensive. "I could just go now?"

"Either way, you're still peeing in front of me. At least in the bathroom, I can look the other way." Crossing his arms, Harvey gives every impression of sticking around for a while. "Besides, who do you think will have to help clean you up, anyway?" Mike grimaces. "Face it, kiddo, your plan is riddled with flaws."

"Dammit," he mutters.

"Look," Harvey's face suddenly softens. "It's not so bad. I'm not judging you, Mike. It's okay to ask for help."

"I wouldn't say, I _asked_ exactly-"

The other man fires him a look that soon has him quieting.

"Come on." He wraps an arm around the pup's shoulders and gently lifts him up. "Let's just get this over with."

"And then we never speak of it again?" Mike sheepishly asks, tugging hopefully on his lip.

Harvey smiles.

Bracing himself for a wealth of awkwardness, he wholeheartedly agrees, "And then we never speak of it again."

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><p>"Harvey, it's Monday. I bike to work <em>every<em> Monday. In fact, I bike to the firm _every day_ regardless of the weather or how little sleep I've gotten. A little drizzle like that? It isn't going to make a damn difference." He wants to scream in frustration, but settles for nipping his fingers. "I'm used to it."

"Mike, you are not cycling and that's it," Harvey once again lays down the law. "Keep in mind, I don't even want you in today _at all._ I can easily withdraw the opportunity if you continue with this inanity."

The threat, while fostering potential, achieves little. Mike knows that the now-transparent lawyer could never hold out for long. Harvey will want to have him just a stone's throw away, where he can keep tabs on him.

If not, there'd be phone calls between meetings and a quick check-up during lunch. And then there's all of the incessant agonising over whether or not Mike has eaten all of his five-a-day and pacing because Mike might not have brushed his teeth or may have slipped while in the shower and just generally disrupting everything and everyone around him with his ludicrous worrying.

Okay, so he _may_ be exaggerating a little. But that's the idea.

"I have a perfectly good driver who you are going to make use of. I will not have you catching your death out there."

On second thought, maybe not.

"Please, spare me the melodramatics," Mike groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "You've been smothering me all weekend. I don't want to hear it!"

"Don't act like I'm some sort of crazy person, harping on about something without reason," Harvey responds irritably. "You've been ill due to the wound that _you_ didn't clean getting infected. Excuse me for being slightly sceptical."

"Are you seriously _blaming_ me?" Mike splutters.

"No, I'm merely _implying_ that maybe if you'd actually changed the bandages, oh, I don't know, _once or twice_, then you could have avoided an unpleasant situation."

"That's not fair," the younger man exclaims, eyes flashing. "I _forgot,_ okay? Jeez, I made one tiny mistake. But guess what? I paid for it." Taking a deep breath, he swipes at his cheeks and sniffles. "I apologise if my feverish rampaging was some huge inconvenience for you."

Deflating instantaneously, Harvey winces. "Mike, you weren't inconveniencing anyone, I swear. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, ducking his head to hide his smile.

Worked like a charm.

"We'd better get going," Mike suggests, calculatingly hoarse. "Wouldn't want to be late."

"Right," Harvey nods, brows squeezing. "Of course."

The drive to the Pearson Hardman is silent and congealed and by the time they pull up outside the firm, it obviously becomes too much for the senior partner, who cautiously proposes, "Maybe later we could watch a film or something?" He clears his throat and casually buttons his jacket as they step out, but the young associate can virtually smell his guilt. "We'll make a night of it. Anything you want. I'll even abstain from arguing."

Well, whaddya know? This could be pretty sweet...

"Anything I want?" Mike grins.

Harvey rolls his eyes, beginning to walk briskly as Mike trails behind.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say?" he observes with distaste souring his tone. "Because if so, then the deal's off, and not even Donna will be able to bully me out of commenting on that embarrassing haircut. Just saying, I've seen better hair clogging up the shower drain."

"Thanks," he mutters, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the image.

"No need to thank me, Mike," Harvey smirks. "It was my pleasure."

"Don't I know it."

After a few more moments of companionable silence, his boss offhandedly asks, "So... movies?"

"I'm thinking _The Dark Knight_. Can't go wrong with Batman."

Harvey curbs the urge to groan.

Pretty sweet, indeed.

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><p>A few days later and the novelty has most certainly worn off.<p>

The one night that Mike managed to wheedle his way back to his and he ends up at Harvey's place after a disastrous visit with his Grammy, falling asleep before eight _again. _And that's after having snoozed for an hour that day in Harvey's office - a daily occurrence ever since he nodded off at his desk that Monday.

There are little things, too. He can't seem to concentrate for very long and has been caught daydreaming more than once, doodling on the margins of various paperwork. He _never_ seems to have to shave anymore and just yesterday, Mike had to double-check the label on his shirt because it swamped him.

He's living a nightmare.

Every day, Mike stands in front of the mirror and tries to pinpoint what could be wrong. Logically, his appearance hasn't changed all that drastically, bar the peculiar absence of his usual six o'clock shadow, so he shouldn't really pay it much heed. Yet, intuition tells him otherwise.

He's wary, but Mike can't fathom why.

Then, on Wednesday, Mike is side-blinded by yet another incident, which honestly, he would like to comment on as little as possible.

As has become routine, the young associate is tugging his blanket over his body and curling up on Harvey's couch for a quick power-nap at noon, when the man himself wanders in and instead of making a beeline for his desk, Harvey hesitantly approaches him.

"Hey, kiddo," he greets with misleading lightness, ruffling his hair and taking a seat. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Hmm?" the sleepy pup yawns, fisting his eyes. "What is it?"

"You know how sometimes you find it tough getting to sleep even with the nightlight on?" he asks, inattentively rubbing the kid's back.

Mike tenses.

"...Yeah?"

"Well... I think I may have a solution."

Tugging on his ear, he says doubtfully, "You do?"

"Uh-huh." Harvey nods. "Thing is, though," And he should have _known_ there'd be a catch, "I need you to keep an open mind about it, alright? Can you promise me that?"

Not liking the sound of this one bit, Mike hedges, "I dunno..."

"It's nothing _bad._ You just mightn't like the _idea_ of it, but once you give it a go..." he trails off. Deciding to just power on, Harvey reaches around the couch and digs up a small bag. Letting it flop in his lap, stooping downwards to one side, the loose material dips to reveal untamed tuffs of grey fur.

"What..." Mike delicately screws up his face. "Is that?"

"I believe it's a wolf," Harvey ever-so-helpfully points out. "Fierce and protective and all that jazz, right?"

"No, I meant, what is it _doing_ here? Did a client leave it behind or something?" It's astonishing what denial can do to people's brain functions. It's like the last five minutes of conversation have been sucked from his memory.

"No," Harvey says slowly. "I bought it for you."

"Ew, why?"

"To give you some company. It's like a friend and a playmate and possibly even a sense of security all rolled into one."

"That's stupid, Harvey," Mike huffs, mouth poking out. "It'll never work. It's ugly and gross and oh-" He pauses, and Harvey doesn't know how a pause can be so sarcastic, but this one certainly is. "_Not alive_."

In his head, however, he immediately christens the lousy stuffed animal Jellybean.

"Help me out here," the older man requests, frowning, "Tell me, how exactly is this furry little thing _gross_?"

"The eyes are too big and that shade of blue is weird."

"Now a colour can be weird?"

"This one is," Mike insists. "Weirdest blue I've ever seen."

"I think you're just tired," Harvey laughs. "Let me know how you feel in an hour's time."

But he doesn't, because there's no way in hell he'll ever broach the subject again.

In fact, later when it's time for bed and he pulls back his duvet to unearth a ridiculously fluffy wolf with an odd kind of charm about him, Mike doesn't say a thing.

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><p>By Friday, Mike is ready to take drastic action.<p>

He's fed up being treated like an incompetent little kid and to some extent, _acting_ like an incompetent little kid, and overall, his brain is simply fried.

He does his best to grin and bear it, but when push comes to shove, some capricious part of him snaps.

"Good job on those briefs, Mike," Harvey casually compliments that evening, taking a dreg of coffee while toying with a baseball, tossing it up into the air and effortlessly catching it. "They were really well done."

"No, they weren't," Mike refutes without thinking. "There are twelve separate mistakes that I neglected to rectify and a clause I had no intentions of citing - one which, funnily enough, could save our client no less than ten million."

Harvey gives a violent jerk of surprise.

When Mike doesn't renounce his daring claim, the senior partner shakes his head in amazement. Assigning Mike his full attention, he subsequently sets aside both his ball and cup.

"Let me get this straight," he says slowly, disbelief written in his features as he puzzles it out, "You _deliberately_ half-assed those briefs?"

Recoiling slightly at the subdued tone, Mike licks his lips and nods uneasily.

"What on _earth_ would possess you to _do_ something like that?" Harvey questions in bewilderment.

Eyes glued to the ground, he shrugs rigidly and absentmindedly chews on his thumbnail.

"I wanted to see if you would yell at me," Mike mumbles, shuffling. Glancing up and gingerly clearing his throat, he states quietly, "Which... you didn't."

Sensing that he is vulnerable to scrutiny, Harvey turns away and rubs his chin, giving a scathing scoff. "This is ridiculous-"

"Why?" The softly spoken question, melted with uncertainty, almost renders Harvey speechless. "Why didn't you? Yell at me, I mean. You should. I deserve it."

"It wasn't of any consequence," Harvey explains with strenuous nonchalance, "I caught the oversights reasonably easily-"

"No, the _real_ reason," the younger man bites out, a muscle in his jaw juddering.

"Because..." He hesitates, blowing out a weary breath. "Because you seem to be having difficulties focusing lately," Harvey downplays with mild indifference, but Mike doesn't miss the way his shoulders tense and his brows tighten. "And I didn't want you to feel bad about overlooking a few errors."

"A few _glaring_ errors."

"Maybe so. Does it really matter?"

"Of course it matters!" Mike cries incredulously. "What... Why…" He falters, looking dreadfully young and timid and perhaps a little defeated. Harvey doesn't think the boy even notices when he proceeds to gnaw on his clenched hand, thrusting his knuckles against his right canines. "Why the hell are _doing_ this to me?"

Harvey is clearly baffled as hell, unsure at what point this started going downhill and at a clear loss as to how to repair it.

Fisting his immaculate hair, he demands, "Doing _what_?"

"Pretending like you care all of a sudden!" Mike bursts out and, man, it is such a relief to say the words aloud at last. "You tended to me when my stupid cut got infected, you let me stay at your con-" he cuts off, mouth wrenching into an ugly sneer, "Correction, _forced_ me to stay at your swanky, upmarket condo. Not to mention, all of the badgering about meals, banning me from cycling out of some absurd, misplaced 'concern,' and constantly invading my personal space with all of these bizarrely kind touches that are yeah, comforting and reassuring and all that crap, I guess, but utterly uncharacteristic!" Mike rhymes off, gaining momentum.

Meanwhile, the senior partner can do little more than listen on in shock.

"Must I _seriously_ jog your memory, Harvey?" he asks, eyebrows raising contemptuously. "You _don't_ **_care_**."

Suddenly, his voice wobbles and just like that, all of his bravo seems to up and disappear. He collapses onto the couch, falling forward with his elbows hitting against his knees and holding his face in his hands.

"So you're goddamn right it matters," Mike whispers, voice breaking. "_Why_ are you suddenly acting like you give a damn or something? I just-I just _don't **understand**_." It simply isn't _logical_ and he can't wrap his mind around a concept so fantastical as being... like, _loved, _or something.

_Especially_ by someone like Harvey.

Best damn closer in the city, sure - but absolutely hopeless when it comes to anything tenuously emotional.

During Mike's rant, Harvey had been becoming paler and paler and by the end, he is positively horror-stricken.

He swallows with extreme difficulty. "Mike…"

"And it isn't just you, either!" Mike continues to vent, missing the agonised glint in the older man's eyes. "It's Donna and it's Rachel and my _grandmother_. Hell, even Louis is in on the act!" He leaps up and begins wirely pacing, gesturing wildly in all directions. "Just tell me. What am I missing? What could possibly be in this for you? _Any_ of you? I'm-I'm like the _worst_ candidate to pull a prank of this magnitude on, because you _know_ me, Harvey. I'm this pitiful, attention-craving idiot with serious abandonment issues and a hell of a lot of affection amassed that I _want_ to give out freely but can't because in the end, I don't really have anyone _to_ give it to."

He gasps.

"You've said so yourself. God, you even _joke_ about it. Quite a lot, actually. Or at least," he amends, frowning, "You used to. My point is, I get attached and it's horrible and I just… I just... I don't understand," he finishes in this tiny, heart-wrenching voice.

"Mike...I _do_ care-"

"_Bull_shit!"

"Like hell it is!" Harvey growls, torn between wanting to either to embrace or throttle him. "_Christ_, _Mike,_ do you seriously think I'd do something like that? That this is some sort of farce? A _game_ concocted for my own amusement?"

And dammit if his expression isn't so painfully open, so achingly _raw_, that Mike's chest twists.

"Because you _know_ me, Mike," Harvey says, turning his own words against him, "I don't _want_ to care. But _you_... you just sneaked past all of my defences and freaking forced me to anyway, because you're just that damn lovable! I don't want to care, Mike. But I do," He stops, breathing shallowly, "I really, really do."

"You're just saying that." Because he wants it to be true, - so, _so_ much - but he's been duped before.

"Do you think it was _easy_ for me that first night when you were in so much damn pain that you cried so brutally you vomited all over yourself?" Harvey contests, a merciless potency to his tone. "_Remember that?"_ he chuckles, flippant and harsh. _"No?_ Well, I do. And it _killed_ me. You kept gagging and whimpering and muttering my name over and over and it _hurt, _Mike. Because I couldn't do a goddamn thing."

Mike's eyes burn and he wants to cry - he truly does - but he doesn't. He doesn't but it's a damn near thing. _Damn_ near.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he eventually chokes.

Harvey's face contorts. "Mike, nothing's wrong with y-"

"Don't patronise me!" he snaps. "Quit fucking patronizing me! You know damn well that something hasn't been right since that mishap at that lab two weeks ago! Just _look_ at me, for Pete's sake. Take a good _long_ look. I bloody well dare you to."

The reminder of his recent physical changes are enough to push him over the edge.

He can scarcely breathe.

"Mike, buddy," Harvey says evenly, though his own composure is less than concrete. "You need to calm down-"

"Don't tell me to _calm **down**_!" He's getting hysterical and he knows it, but his emotions are all over the place and he can't reign them in. "I've shrunk at least three inches! My suits barely fit me anymore! You instigated a blasted naptime because I tire so freaking easily!"

"_Mike_-" Harvey takes a step forward with his palms raised in an hollow gesture of placation, sending him skittering back.

"I-I can't do this," he suddenly declares. "I'm sorry, but I can't pretend like this situation's not royally fucked-up for one more flamin' second."

"We can talk about this. There's no need to do anything rash-"

But he's already gone.

Retreating quickly from his boss who is rapidly becoming something _other - _heavily invested in something neither of them understands even distantly - and a wide-eyed Donna who's blinking rapidly, Mike races out of Harvey's office.

Feeling like he's going to puke any second, he sprints to the elevator, which is miraculously unoccupied, and fidgets the entire way down. The second the doors open, he springs free, dashing into the night.

Voices calling after him all the way - down streets, through shortcuts, around corners, under streetlights, _resounding_ in his head - Mike runs and runs and runs.

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><p>While Mike was growing up, one of his Grammy's biggest fears was that he was missing out.<p>

Every year without fail until he entered high school and Father's Day crept up and he'd be forced to paste glue onto coloured cards with a lopsided, tissue-papered heart slapped on top, Mike would arrive home mildly upset, - his parents naturally on the forefront of his mind - as he scrunched the glittery drivel up and lobbed it at the trash. And his Grammy would ask if he were okay and he'd shrug it off, because, really - it was just a meaningless slice of paper folded into a generic greeting card, beaming and bright and tender with naivety, containing none of the sentiments Mike wishes he'd had the chance to unburden.

Had his Dad been alive, he would have been lucky to have him even glance at it. It wouldn't have meant anything back then and it certainly didn't have to mean anything this time 'round, simply because he wasn't there to throw the damn thing away himself.

And even though his Grammy would nod and paste on a pleasant smile, Mike could tell that she would never allow herself to entertain the belief that he was truly okay while every fibre of her being insisted that it _mattered_ even when it didn't matter to him.

He might not have fully comprehended the magnitude of his loss, but she most definitely did.

The long hours she spent working to sustain the two of them meant that he was alone a lot, too. Let's just say, Mike had to adapt pretty quickly, looking after both himself and his grandmother, as more and more responsibilities fell to him as she grew older. Personally, he really doesn't feel as if his short-lived childhood hindered his happiness all that greatly. Yes, she may have been getting frail and weary, but it didn't necessarily put a damper on their time together. Never for one moment has Mike ever resented her for this - quite the opposite - but nevertheless, to this day, his Grammy continues to beat herself up over it.

It wasn't enough. _She_ wasn't enough.

And it broke her heart that Mike had no-one else besides herself to count on.

His Grammy was convinced that he deserved more than what he was receiving, and no matter how hard Mike tried to assure her otherwise, those doubts weighed heavily on her mind.

So it was of no surprise when she beamed brighter than she ever had in years upon seeing that Harvey had accompanied Mike on his visitation three days ago.

Don't get him wrong, Mike was glad that it made Grammy happy. He just wishes she could be overjoyed by something _else._

It's with this in mind that Mike decides against popping in to the nursing home, where she will inevitably try to convince him that this is a wonderful thing. His Gram has never been particularly religious, but he can _hear_ her now, parroting, "It's about time God intervened."

Then, when his cellphone blasts - _kind of like it is now_ - she'd guilt him into answering with passages from a philosophy book she read a few months back.

It's an all-round, bad idea. Especially with Mike being as furious as he is. He'd be kicking himself afterwards if he ever lashed out at her for saying something even vaguely optimistic that hits a particular nerve - and she _would, _she so would - with only his best interests at heart.

He aimlessly wanders the cold, gritty city, hours cascading this way, as he wades deeper into unfamiliar territory and catalogues his dour surroundings.

He is shoving his hands into his pockets when he feels the first splotch of rain on his forehead.

It's light at the onset, so Mike ignores it. He huddles into his suit jacket, which offers very little warmth, even going so far as to turn it up at the collar - though he's sure, he must look ridiculous.

Only moments later, the sky crackles and, suddenly, it's teeming down.

Diving for cover, he sprints to the nearest building - a seedy-looking watering hole with a wilting overhead sign reading _Sandino's _in an insipid, grim glow - and pushes his way blindly inside.

He immediately yanks off his tie and with some difficulty, undoes his top two buttons with numb, maladroit fingers. Next, Mike strips off his now saturated jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Feeling marginally better and shivering only slightly, he inhales deeply and scours his fortuitous refuge.

The lightning's dim, dingy, - not his regular hangout, though similar. He has pretty low standards lately - and the place is practically deserted.

But that's okay.

Mike could use the quiet.

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><p><em>Thank-you all for reading.<em>

_If you haven't already deduced, the following chapter will resume directly from where the prologue left off. That's gotta be mildly exciting, right?_


	4. Face Your Fears

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**CHAPTER THREE:**

Face Your Fears

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><p><strong>AN: **I'm a little scared of posting this chapter, (oh, the irony of the title) because I don't think it's as well explained as it could have been and I really hope it all makes sense. The darn thing really fought me. To the point where I was like, _'Screw it. This is rubbish and I'm never going to get it right!"_ Which... soon lead to, "_I am NEVER writing again!'_ Thankfully, I recovered from this ridiculously histrionical stint, but I feel like I should apologise for it all the same. So, yeah, sorry for the freak out. Please enjoy this next instalment of my whacky tale.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language and the total implausibility of this plot. I urge you to suspend any and all belief._

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><p>'The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it has taken place.' - George Bernard Shaw<p>

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><p><em>Thump.<em>

_Thump._

_Thump._

The sound of his fear pulsates in his ears as Mike walks into the pale, contemporary building - the pummelling of his heart drowning out all other noise so that there is no escape from the crippling dread that flares up inside of him.

His legs are like lead, holding him in place, as he pulls together a flickering smile and says almost warmly, "Good afternoon. Mike Ross from Pearson Hardman? I'm here to see Dr Slater."

Not bothering to glimpse his way, the receptionist listlessly replies, "To the right. Room B. He's been waiting."

Mike doesn't even try to conceal his disbelief at that.

He'd been all set to charm his way in. There's no way he could have been expected.

The woman rolls her eyes at his confounded expression. "The right is _that_ way," she drawls with a blatantly patronizing, disgruntled attitude, even going so far as to point with one long, manicured finger.

"Right," Mike nods jerkily. "Thank-you."

He then hurries off before security can arrive to haul him away.

The indicated room isn't hard to find, but by this point, Mike is so worked up that he thoughtlessly barges right in. With a strident, boorish bang, the door slaps the wall, bringing him and all of his nervous energy to an abrupt standstill.

The air freezes in his lungs.

When the scientist catches sight of him, his face immediately falls into a frown.

"Mr Ross," he greets in this strange, grave tone, and Mike is taken aback by the man actually remembering his name. He hadn't thought he'd made much of an impression before. "I'd been afraid this might happen."

"Sorry?" He pulls a face. "Afraid what might happen? Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?" _Or why the hell you're not surprised to see me?_

"Come with me," Dr Slater instructs, again startling Mike by the subtle bleakness that douses his voice. "It seems we have a lot to discuss."

"We…" Rocking back on his heels, Mike absently scratches his chest. "We do?"

"I'm assuming you're here on personal business?"

"Well, yes-"

"Then trust me, you'll appreciate the discretion." By this stage, the young associate is confused as hell, but when Dr Slater turns down a narrow corridor off to one side, he doesn't hesitate to follow.

He leads Mike to a small, stark laboratory that doesn't appear to have been used in weeks. Sealed boxes line the work space, while the bulk of the equipment has been masked by thin, white sheets.

But it's the air, cold and stale and thick with what could have been, that unnerves Mike the most.

"Here will do," Slater hums, flicking a switch and watching the room brighten. If anything, this only serves to depress the kid further, as it renders the lab all the more grey and dreary. In the dark, at least you can cling to an illusion. But now, bathed in murky light with nowhere to hide, Mike can't ignore the lie he's been living.

"It's been tough for you, I'll bet," the older man suddenly murmurs, startling him out of his thoughts. For the first time, Mike notices just how drawn and pallid the doctor's face really is, and it hits him suddenly - the profound weariness that sinks into this man's every step.

"You're confused," he continues dully, a terribly far-away gaze clouding his expression. "Not to mention, scared. Angry. Completely and utterly alone. Of course, you are. I've seen it before."

"Seen… what before?" Mike asks uncertainly, wary and on edge as he probes for answers he's not sure he wants anymore. "You're being awfully cryptic."

That certainly rouses Dr Slater.

He snaps around to face him and gestures impatiently. "This. You. Your case. This isn't limited exclusively to yourself, I'm afraid. Not by a long shot."

Narrowing his eyes, Mike eyes him briefly, taking in the slovenlier stubble, eroded fingernails and grubby lab coat as though they alone are the key to everything, before biting his lip and prodding, "And what is 'this?'"

Not a game, obviously.

_Christ, Mike, do you seriously think I'd do something like that?_

Nor a nightmare.

_He's living a nightmare…_

Nothing that is rooted in reality and yet this is real.

Slater gives a hard, mocking laugh.

Mouth bitterly coiled, he replies, "My greatest failure."

Had this been any other set of circumstances, Mike would have accused the man of melodrama, but as it stands, he simply nods slowly in the face of such viciously destructive self-loathing. "Yeah..." His forehead crinkles. "You're going to have explain that one."

Exhaling forcefully, Dr Slater's shoulders visibly sag as he kneads his left brow.

"It began with my former colleague, Dr West," he starts and the way his voice cynically envelops the words, immediately commands Mike's attention. "He was what you'd call a bit of a radical scientist and had earned quite a reputation in our field for his unconventional methods and outrageous claims. I was one of the few to take him seriously."

And then there's that outlying look again. As though he's a million miles away.

"West, he…he wasn't like other people. The man was… he was a genius," Dr Slater breathes in unmistakable awe. "The real thing, you know? For years, I'd been a fan of his work, so when I was offered a position on his research team - the chance to work alongside someone of such extraordinary brilliance - it didn't even cross my mind to decline."

He smirks then - contemptuously.

"It was only after signing a confidentiality clause that the real nature of the experiment was disclosed," Dr Slater declares with palpable disdain. "To say I was sceptical would be an immense understatement. But I had faith in Dr West's abilities. I trusted him unreservedly. I had been so confident that West _knew_ what he was doing that I couldn't possibly comprehend the underlying fact that he didn't. It was foolish, I see that now. But you have to understand-"

"Understand _what_?" the tightly wound associate snaps. "What was it about _this_ experiment? What did you _do_?"

"We-we-" he cuts off, overcome with sudden emotion.

Mike tenses.

Squeezing his eyes shut and fiercely compressing his lips in trepidation, Dr Slater swallows hard.

"We ruined over twenty people's lives."

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><p><strong>-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-<strong>

Three Days Previously

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><p><em>* flashback *<em>

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><p><em>Thump.<em>

_Thump._

_Thump._

Every beat is painful.

One thought reverberates inside, rising any doubt, deepening any fear.

_You don't care._

He really doesn't. Harvey _doesn't _care and that was always the problem, wasn't it? Every damn relationship was doomed to fail when all that really mattered, ever, was his career. Winning became a fixation, an _addiction_, and sometimes Harvey wonders if the reason he grasped onto it so tightly was because he needs to win, maybe, to feel whole.

Most days, however, he revels in his bachelorism. Life is easy and free without the demands of a wife or kids and whatnot - that's never really been his thing. Donna is the closest thing he has to family besides his brother and Harvey is happy with that, isn't he?

It had always been enough before.

And yet now… Now…

"Come on, come on. Pick up. Pick _up_," he growls into his cell as he fists his hair, tousled from shoving his hands through it one too many times, and restlessly paces the length of his office.

_You don't **care**._

Then what in Christ's name is this?

"Harvey, you need to calm down. This isn't helping."

"He's out there all alone, Donna," Harvey counters with clear panic, leg bouncing. "Mike doesn't even have his crutches with him and God knows his ankle is not quite as peachy as he'd lead us to believe. Goddamn idiot probably hasn't even taken painkillers either because, _needless to say_, he'll only tolerate them when it's undeniably necessary, but with him, it's _never_ undeniably necessary. So I _know_ he's hurting and here I am, with _no idea_ where the hell he could have gone, and I'm-I can't-"

_I'm useless._

"Harvey-"

He doesn't hear her.

"_Harvey_!" Donna snaps with unexpected harshness, pleased when he flinches and his wild eyes latch onto her collected ones. God knows, she needs to be the rational one here.

She's never seen her boss in such a panic-stricken state and it is a little unsettling to witness the classically level-headed lawyer seemingly come apart at the seams.

"Take a deep breath," she urges. "It's okay. He's fine. Mike just went for a walk to cool off-"

"He shouldn't even _be_ walking!"

She scarcely restrains herself from rolling her eyes. "Well, it won't exactly help matters," she allows, "But for pity's sake, Harvey, it's not going to kill him!"

"Oh, like you're not freaking the shit out!" the lawyer scoffs, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes in frustration. "This is _Mike_, Donna. Trouble _always_ finds him."

"Of course I'm worried, Harvey! But there's not much we can do about it, is there?"

That was obviously the wrong thing to say as Harvey immediately recommences pacing.

"But what if he's injured, Donna?" he chucks out at her. "What if he's out there and something terrible happens and no-one's there to help? The kid's _angry_. Fuming, in fact. People make stupid decisions when they're angry all the time and this is _Mike_," Harvey stresses, begging her with those damn angst-ridden eyes to understand.

Donna doubts the insult even registers.

"You know what else causes people to make horrible decisions?" Donna asks, quirking a brow. She doesn't wait for an answer - instead continuing pointedly, "Panic and hysteria."

"I'm not hysterical!" he cries… kind of hysterically. "As his superior, I have a duty-"

"To what?" Donna smirks. "Get your panties in a twist?"

He glares. "What am I supposed to do?" he questions, and the desperate distress widening his eyes yanks on Donna's heart strings. He just looks so… lost. "Wait around on the off-chance that he shows up? _Nothing?!_"

Whipping out his cell again, Harvey dials Mike's number for the hundredth time and stands waiting with baited breath. The action pains Donna to see and she wishes she could turn away, grab her things from her desk and go home, but for heaven's sake, she _loves_ these two asshats and it's like she's frozen - watching this God-forsaken train wreck.

No-one is more surprised than Donna when the dork actually picks up.

"Mike?" Harvey breathes in disbelief. "Mike, where the hell are you?" All of a sudden, his expression darkens and the troubled secretary hates that he tries so hard to cloak his concern. "I've been calling you for hours! You are in _so_ much trouble, young man."

There's a pause while Mike responds.

"Tell me where you are," Harvey promptly demands. "I'm coming to pick you up."

_Oh, the poor puppy,_ the ever-so-slightly amused woman sighs. _This is not looking good._

"Mike," Harvey says tightly in that _'you're seriously trying my patience, shut-the-hell-up,'_ voice. "It is in your best interests not to argue with me. Donna has been going out of her mind with worry-" She laughs outright at that "-and to tell the truth, I haven't been particularly impressed by your disappearing act, either."

"Understatement of the century," Donna mutters, earning an annoyed glower and a nudge in the side.

His jaw then clenches and he grits, "Tell. Me. Where. You. Are."

If she's honest with herself, Donna is a little impressed by the take-no-shit attitude, but on the other hand.. she can't help but feel concerned. This is not an exchange between employer and employee. This is like the show-down before some defiant brat gets grounded for two weeks, but it's alright because they totally deserved it.

It's then that Harvey dangerously murmurs, "You..went..to a bar?" And that's what really drives it home for Donna.

This isn't _right._

"I'll be there in five." And for a second after he ends the call, there's a genuine possibility that that cell is going to get hurled across the office.

Pacing all over again, Harvey vents, "I can't believe it. I can't believe he'd go to a bar. How could he be so irresponsible? Mike knows he's not allowed-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Donna intercepts. "Wait a minute. He's not _allowed?_ Why?"

Suddenly, the steadfast lawyer looks unsure. Angry, but unsure.

"Because-because he has work tomorrow-"

"That's never bothered you before," she points out.

"A lot of things never bothered me before!" Harvey snaps. And there it is. The _real_ issue here.

"Harvey," his friend murmurs in an overly gentle voice. Suddenly, she has to be careful in a way that's never been necessary before. "You're forgetting… Mike is a grown man. He can take care of himself."

Oh, boy. That sure gets a rise out of him.

"_Grown man_?" Harvey repeats incredulously, giving a frenzied huff of a laugh. "This is Mike. Mike, who is scared of the dark and chews his fingers when he's anxious or bored or unsure of himself and sucks his thumb when he's tired. This is the same _man_ who still believes - and don't even try to deny it - that 'special' cuts are capable of turning his hands _green."_

"Harvey.." She winces. When did everything become so bloody complicated? "I'm not going to pretend that I have any idea what any of this means, but Mike was right when he said that this… it's fucked up as hell."

"Don't you think I _know_ that?"

"_Do_ you, though?" Donna retorts mercilessly. "Because I'm seriously starting to wonder."

The sudden hurt in his stunned face almost makes her want to take the words back. But how can it be betrayal when it's the truth?

"I'm sorry, Harvey," she goes on, voice grim. "But what you're doing? It's only going to push him away in the long run-"

"Donna-"

She doesn't give him a chance to defend himself, knowing this needs to be said. "And I'm worried, Harvey," she softly confides. "Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't look like you know _what_ you're doing."

"I'm-I'm-" He collapses onto his chair. "He's my…my-"

Harvey can't seem to gather his thoughts, vocalise this… these damn feelings…

Her voice is oh-so-delicate to ask, "Your what, Harvey?"

"Mike is like my-my-" he suddenly breaks off. Abruptly standing, he declares with uncharacteristic roughness, "I've got to go."

But from the staggered look his face, Donna thinks she already knows the answer.

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><p><em>* End of flashback *<em>

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><p>Shock settles like dust over Mike's bones and he openly baulks.<p>

"They shut us down and they were right to," the gaunt man whispers distraughtly, words quickening. "Dr West was promptly fired, what remained of his credibility was instantly demolished, and I was left hanging onto my own post by a thread. Hence, the legal problems Mr Specter has failed to dredge up any details of," he adds as a second thought.

"So the experiment was ultimately pulled," Mike succinctly surmises. "Why?"

"The research was ethically questionable at best," Slater elucidates, fine tremors coursing through his hands. "Nine times out of ten, it's impossible to conduct any sort of psychosomatic study without some form of moral conflict arising. But this…" He shakes his head, pained. "What we did…It was deplorable."

"Deplorable how?"

Mike's curiosity has undoubtedly peaked.

As has his fear.

Grimacing, the doctor's eyes bounce around the room - anywhere but near Mike - as he confides, "We were dealing with detrimental issues spanning over months of deception and manipulation. The psychological damage alone was unspeakable. In order to avoid jeopardizing the validity of the results, West refused to inform the participants of the true purpose of the study. We didn't want to plant any ideas in their head of how they _should_ be feeling or the effects this _should_ have on them physically, so… the only alternative was to say nothing at all."

Mike feels a momentary stab of pity for those poor individuals, but hastily pushes the thought aside. He doesn't want to-he just can't-

"The consent, therefore, was naturally dubious," Dr Slater is explaining. "These people had no clue what they were getting themselves into. Several of them _explicitly_ stated that they were only there to earn an easy buck."

He breaks off, running a hand through his receding hair.

"I should have reported West," he fervently reproaches. "It was so wrong - so very, very wrong - but he was my idol and I couldn't bear the thought that he would take a risk of this magnitude without _caring._ You know what he'd tell me?" Dr Slater throws the question out rhetorically. "He'd tell me, _'Slater, think about what we could achieve if we're successful. Just _imagine_. We could change the face of science forever, don't you _see_? In cases like these, the odds always justify the means.' _And I…" He gives an acrimonious chuckle. "I believed him. I couldn't _stand_ to let him down."

Still in the dark and growing more and more frustrated by the minute, Mike gripes, "I don't understand. What were you hoping to accomplish? What was so awful about your research that it cost Dr West his job?"

Dr Slater glances over at him sharply.

The silence between them is long and jaded, heavy with regret.

"We thought we'd discovered a cure for aging, Mr Ross," he solemnly intones, unflinching. "But it was so much more than that."

* * *

><p><strong>-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-<strong>

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* * *

><p><em>* flashback *<em>

* * *

><p>Mike wishes that Harvey were still an ass.<p>

It seems to him that if only his boss would stop all of this caring nonsense, everything could go back to normal.

He wouldn't be sitting here in this dull, drab shithole feeling sorry for himself, because Harvey's coming to ream him out and he doesn't look fucking old enough to nurse a damn beer. And that's not even the worst part.

The worst part is he feels _guilty_. He feels bad for worrying Harvey and that only cements the fact that he's living in goddamn cuckoo land.

"Cheer up, sweetie," the bartender clucks, "Your Dad'll be here any second."

"That's not exactly reassuring," Mike mutters, not even bothering to correct her, because what can he say? What can he say about _any_ of this that'll make one lick of sense to anyone, ever? Nothing, that's what. Absolutely nothing.

"He can't be that bad a guy, I reckon," she murmurs, almost wistful. "No deadbeat dad's gonna care if you're out to all hours. Least this one gives a damn."

Mike shrugs. "Guess so."

And that's all the information he volunteers on the matter.

But when the time comes to face the music, it's strangely anti-climatic.

Harvey sweeps in, murmurs a quick thanks to the bartender who is so obviously keeping an eye on his rebellious 'son', and that's... it.

Taking Mike by the elbow, he says neutrally, "Let's go," before guiding him to the waiting cab by the kerb.

Mike knows it's crazy, but there's a piece of him that's kind of, well, disappointed, in a respect. Especially when he climbs in and for the first time in weeks, Harvey doesn't tell him to buckle his seatbelt.

The longer the silence stretches between them, the more apparent it becomes that Harvey's got something else on his mind.

Surprising himself, Mike finds he doesn't exactly like that.

Soft and uncertain, the boy eventually pipes, "Aren't you gonna, um, say anything?"

Harvey stares straight ahead.

"Given that you don't appear intoxicated, I'm inclined to be more lenient," the older man casually remarks. "You get whatever pro-bonos I've been neglecting, Louis' scanty paperwork and no breaks." He shifts and straightens his tie then; Mike hadn't even noticed it was loose. "You know the drill."

Mike stumbles, "I-I do?"

"Sure, you do." Harvey rolls his eyes. "It's not like you haven't screwed up enough in the past. You tell me: how does this usually go?"

Is he... is he for real?

"I get a lecture," Mike recalls, frowning, "Along with The Face Of Disapproval, and then you banish me to my desk for the next few days to either rectify my mistake or because I'm drowning in so much work, I may as well be chained to it anyway."

"Exactly," Harvey grins, but there's something… off about his expression, though Mike can't detect what. "Except that this time, you already know what I'm thinking, so a lecture isn't necessary-"

"It never is," Mike says sullenly.

Glaring, he continues, "And that Face Of Disapproval? Try 'Face of You Goddamn Idiot.'"

"Not sure _that_ was necessary," Mike mutters, but inside he is feeling bewildered beyond repair. So far, there have been no hair ruffles or '_kiddos_' or '_buddy_'s.' His boss hasn't said a single thing about putting himself in danger or wandering off to a dodgy neighbourhood. _Not once_, has Harvey professed any kind of concern whatsoever.

It's almost like… like normal. Like the _old_ Harvey. Only this doesn't feel normal at all.

"When it comes to you," Harvey smirks. "There is literally no such thing as an unnecessary insult."

Mike's relieved - of course, he is. Why wouldn't he be?

It's just... His heart just aches a little.

It's at that exact moment that he notices the cab is pulling up beside his own apartment block and his stomach drops.

"I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow morning, kidd-" Harvey cuts off, frowning. Recovering quickly, he inserts, "I don't care if it's a Saturday; we have an early meeting with a client over at Ferguson's. Don't be late."

Dazed, Mike stumbles out of the cab and is almost to the entrance when he hears a voice ring out, "I mean it, Mike! I won't accept any excuses!"

And as he turns his key in the lock and his door swings open to reveal his cold, barren home, Mike is still stuck wondering why in the world it hurts so damn much.

* * *

><p><em>* End of flashback *<em>

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><p>Mike has heard more than enough.<p>

"Oh, sure. A cure for aging. Right. Of course," he sarcastically bites, forcing a nasty sneer, "Like that's feasible. You know, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but since you are clearly out of your goddamn mind and _still_ haven't explained what _any_ of this has got to do with me-"

"Those chemicals never should have been mixed, Mr Ross," Slater interpolates squarely. "Those beakers were comprised of the key components for a de-aging formula." He halts briefly, trying to gauge the kid's reaction, before concluding, "And you accidentally inhaled it."

Mike laughs. But the sound is strained and false even to his own ears. "You're crazy-"

"Am I?" he swiftly returns, raising a brow. "At the time, I couldn't be sure that it was those exact chemicals that had been combined. It seemed a much too unfortunate calamity and I had sincerely prayed otherwise. Until my fears could be confirmed or you initiated contact, I was unable to divulge any details of our previous catastrophe. My confidentiality agreement proved to be a regrettable impediment."

"Are you fucking with me?" Mike blurts. "Like, seriously? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Dr Slater bristles.

"I assure you, Mr Ross, it was no _joke_ when all of our participants regressed back to their adolescent selves."

* * *

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* * *

><p><em>* flashback *<em>

* * *

><p>The following day, things don't get much better.<p>

Mike is tired and grumpy throughout the meeting, having not slept all night because - get this - his apartment felt too strange, his bed lacked his furry friend, and there was no _Harvey_ to ruffle his hair and wish him goodnight, soaked by the glow of his nightlight.

It's left him feeling oddly out of sorts.

Harvey, himself, has been distant all day, to say the least. Mike just wants him to say something - anything - and is rapidly becoming annoyed with being ignored.

Slowly, - as his mentor neglects to chide him for obviously skipping lunch and later fails to confiscate the redbull which is frankly the only thing keeping the associate going - that annoyance turns to something much more unfavourable. Something sore and itchy that Mike absolutely refuses to acknowledge is anxiety.

He can't understand why he's being so needy. It's like, all of a sudden, Harvey's opinion of him is of vital importance and Mike's saddened by the fact that his boss is seemingly disappointed in him. Not only that, but he... he-

Oh, God, he's really going to admit it, isn't he?

Mike _misses_ Harvey. And in essence, he is simply upset he's not around.

There. He said it.

He misses his boss and he has no freakin' notion why.

It doesn't help that as the day wears on, Mike becomes more and more exhausted, unaccustomed to missing his usual nap. The lines on his page begin to blur, only about half of the files completed, and his eyelids are constantly drooping, forcing the kid to tug on them just to keep himself alert. Mike's even beginning to wonder if he's broken some sort of record or something, after his unbroken chain of yawning that lasted a solid fifteen minutes.

His resolve is wavering and Mike doesn't know what to do.

* * *

><p><strong>-0-o-0-o-0-<strong>

* * *

><p>Harvey loves coming to the firm on Saturdays.<p>

He's a self-professed workaholic and it's the one day of the week where he can get the most done without the hustle and bustle of every damn employee in the building.

But for the first time that he can remember, Harvey spends the majority of the day just staring out the window, a brooding hollowness shrouding his body.

He can't concentrate. He can't think. He can hardly bear to sit here knowing Mike's down the hall in his damp, wrinkled suit from the day before, with purple bags under his eyes and a huge bundle of files he'll have to stay overnight to finish.

Truth be told, Harvey wants nothing more than to send the obviously sleep-deprived boy home, after giving him a thorough telling off for cycling in the rain after he'd _specifically_ prohibited him from doing so. For God's sake, does Mike think he's _blind_ or something? He can _see_ the abandoned bike from his office. The very same abandoned bike he'd dropped off at Mike's place three damn nights ago.

Yet he does none of that.

Harvey is trying so hard to respect Mike's wishes and leave him alone to look after himself like the-the _adult_ he is, but he never could have anticipated just how excruciatingly difficult it would be to keep his distance.

Turns out, the decision is taken out of his hands when the door creaks open and a thin, blonde figure slinks into his office, immediately curling up on his couch.

He doesn't even pause to consider it.

Right away, Harvey makes his way over, settling down beside by the pitiful lump. Big, watery blue eyes peek up at him as he retrieves the pup's blanket and drapes it over the pale, sleepy form.

Heart aching, Harvey watches Mike nibble on his curled thumb, obviously upset, and instinctively reaches out to silently smooth his hair. The soothing action relaxes both Mike and Harvey, who each feel at ease for the first time that day.

With his spare hand, the older man snatches the associate's stuffed toy from where it had fallen the day before and smiles as Mike's arm instantly weaves around it, while he nuzzles his nose into the velvety fur.

Neither utter a single thing. Everything and nothing has already been said.

Soft jazz playing in the background, Harvey begins to hum under his breath as Mike's breaths even into sleep.

* * *

><p><em>* End of flashback *<em>

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><p><em>Adolescent selves?<em>

Throat closing over, Mike just about chokes, "Wh-what?" as an icy horror robs him of feeling.

"It was slow, I suppose. The process," he adds at the kid's puzzled expression. "And we've never discovered a cure. That's why I still have the formula, you know. In my free time, I've been working on a reversal. But I'll admit, it's looking highly unlikely that I'll ever be able to undo the damage I've caused."

All of a sudden, Mike is angrier than he's ever been before, head throbbing as he clenches his fists and spits, "You know what? I'm not just going to stand here and listen to you feed me this bullshit-"

"For the last time, young man," Dr Slater explodes in exasperation, "I'm being one-hundred percent serious! I will _never_ forgive myself for inflicting such a fate upon the others." Breathing heavily, he pauses. "And now that same fate is yours."

"_What fate_?!" Mike cries, throwing his hands into the air. "Stop being so goddamn cagey and come out with it already!"

"They weren't just _acting_ like college or high school students," Dr Slater informs him with genuine earnestness. "They were emotional, irrational, physically _younger _than before. Performance at work suffered, sleep patterns were disrupted - you name it. On the outside, they looked like normal, healthy young adults. Yet they were anything but."

"What _were_ they then?" he challenges. "If not teenagers like all outward appearances would suggest?"

Slater heaves a dejected sigh.

"There was one man," he says after a moment. "Late forties. Married with a steady income and two sons. I don't know _why_ he volunteered; some people are more inclined to help than others. It's a personality thing, you see. Really screws with your supposedly random sample of the population-"

"The_ point?" _Man, this guy's thought process is scattered.

"The point is that he was _happy_. Before. His life was simple, I guess, but he liked it that way," the older man passionately tells him. "By the time we were finished _toying_ with his life, his wife was his mother and he was the youngest in the family at thirteen, with two brothers." When Mike literally reels back in surprise, Dr Slater gives a satisfied nod, scornfully adding, "Now, does that sound _simple_ to you?"

No, it sounds… unbelievably dysfunctional. Not least, entirely implausible.

"Let's say for one moment that I believe you," Mike says, humouring either himself or the deranged scientist - he's not sure. "Explain to me: how would any of that be possible?"

"This is _science_ we're talking about, Mr Ross," he replies in exasperation. "Your very cells are changing and the toll that this takes on your body is quite substantial, as you can imagine."

_What if he doesn't_ want_ to imagine? _

"A few of our participants found that although they appeared no younger than a teenager, they experienced drastic moods swings and seemed to have the emotional maturity equivalent to that of a toddler-"

_No, please. Stop - it's not true - it's not true -_

"-When upset or ill, this phenomenon became much more prominent and so far, it has yet to fade completely. Not only that, but they were prone to bouts of extreme tiredness, having to take a break to recharge during the day, and formed attachments to teddy bears, dolls, blankets, and other childish items-"

_No, no, no - shut up, shut up, **shut**_** up****-**

"They were also enthralled by basic kid's TV shows and in extreme cases, even re-established old habits such as thumb sucking or bedwetting."

"That's… that's…" Bizarre. Horrifying. Unbelievable.

_Just like me._

"What was most interesting, however, were the strange changes that participants noted in their personal relationships. You see, what was absolutely ground-breaking wasn't just the fact that we'd stumbled upon a means of literally erasing decades, but the effect that this has on those _around_ you."

Mike's frown deepens. "What do you mean? What effect?"

"It was like watching Mother Nature in action," Slater answers and that really doesn't shed any light on anything.

"Meaning?" he condescendingly prompts.

The doctor rolls his eyes. "Okay, let me put it this way. If a species is to survive, then a mother must never leave her young unprotected, right?"

"Right…" he replies doubtfully. He still doesn't see what that has to do with anything.

"It would be precarious and well, stupid to leave a young child to fend for itself. Unlike many mammals, human infants are basically defenceless. A human mother would have to carry her child for up to twenty-one months in order for it to have the same neurological and cognitive development of a newborn chimpanzee." _So_ not point, Mike inwardly groans. "Commonly, we attribute this to either a mother's metabolism or natural selection, which favoured childbirth at an earlier stage of development to accommodate for both a larger brain size and an upright locomotion. Nevertheless, this means that human children are forced to rely heavily on a caregiver that can cater to their wide range of needs for many years."

"Yes, alright. I get it. Very cool. But what about the _study_?"

A faint smile hovering above his lips, Dr Slater murmurs, "It was… _fascinating_ to behold. The participants were absolutely baffled by the drastic alterations in the behaviour of their loved ones-"

Mike's heart skips a beat.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, he attempts to ask casually, "Change in behaviour, you say?" - all the while, failing miserably.

"Mother Nature, remember?" The douche-bag actually smirks. "As a means of security, everyone who cared for the participant felt inscrutably more protective, especially during periods where the young person themselves felt particularly vulnerable. We never could figure out the cause, but it was easy to see that the bonds of whomever they were closest to - be it a friend, partner, parent or sibling - only strengthened, while any nurturing instincts that they harboured went haywire."

"Okay…" That's… normal.

"You've yet to fully grasp the significance, haven't you?" Slater questions sadly, mouth down-turned once more. "Mr Ross," he relates with subtle delicacy, "These… _feelings_ - protective compulsions, even - would subsequently lead certain individuals to assume the role of the caregiver when the regression reached its… inevitable conclusion."

For a moment, Mike can't breathe.

_Oh, no,_ He gasps. _Oh, God, no_. Shit. Fuck. Crap.

His mind is a stream of swear words. A barrier to stop this - any of this - from penetrating his consciousness.

_This can't be happening. This can't be happening…_

But he can't ignore that it makes sense.

The protectiveness… the worry… the consideration…

Worst of all, his _reactions_.

"Son of a bitch!" he suddenly exclaims, causing Dr Slater to jump back in surprise. "That goddamn asshole has been trying to-" Words failing him, he puffs up his chest in repressed aggravation. "Trying to, to _father_ me!" he bursts. "_Damn idiot_!"

The elder man appears to be at odds between concern and amusement. "Excuse me?"

"Harvey," Mike explains shortly. Dr Slater's face remains blank. "Harvey Specter?"

There's a sick kind of satisfaction in watching the other man's eyes bug out of their sockets.

"No wonder he's being so freakin' caring and affectionate all of sudden!" the kid carries on raging. "What the hell am I supposed to do now? _My_ **_boss_** is going all paternal on my ass!"

"Mr Ross…" Slater hesitantly interrupts while scratching his bald spot. "If what you are saying is true, then your boss can't help what he is doing any more than you can. His…" He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, before restarting, "His own parental instincts would be tremendously difficult to ignore and it is natural, I expect, for Mr Specter to feel you are his responsibility."

"I don't care! This is unacceptable-"

"I must stress, these feelings did not simply materialize inexplicably," Slater remarks seriously, meeting his frenzied gaze in a manner he thinks is intended to reassure. "They would have existed beforehand, but have been merely amplified by the belief that you are, in a sense… helpless and in need of care."

"Oh, great. That's fantastic. So, what you're saying is, I'm supposed to be dependant on a emotionally stunted jerk who, up until very recently, could not express any sort of sentiment beyond, 'Button your damn suit. You're embarrassing the hell out of me?'"

The entire concept is absurd.

In a way, yes, it is a relief to know that he's not in fact losing his mind - that everything that has transpired in the past two and a half weeks may have been outlandish and utterly illogical, but there is a reason his suits no longer complement his lean body or snugly fit around his shoulders.

He is, however, essentially terrified of the truth now that it has emerged.

Mike is a _teenager_, for God's sake. Or, almost. Maybe. He's not sure - which, by the way, what even _is_ that? How on earth can he not tell?

Yet underneath all of the denial and fear and goddamn _grief_, thoughts scattered and fragmented, there is a tiny, little part of Mike that is pleased.

Ten years may have been just shaved off his age and his heart seems to be running towards something vast and irrevocable, propelled by joy or panic or both.

Yet his foremost thought begins and ends with-

_I can't believe it. Harvey really does care about me._

* * *

><p><strong>-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-<strong>

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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* * *

><p><em><em>You didn't seriously think I'd be NORMAL and write in chronological order, did you? I<em>_ was__ planning to, but then... This was so much more interesting. __

_Anyway, thank-you for reading. __Please do let me know what you think. I really do appreciate all of your feedback. _

_If any of you are still, in fact, hopelessly lost plot-wise, then PM or whatever, and I'll do my best to explain. _


	5. All Your Fault

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**CHAPTER FOUR:**

All Your Fault

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* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Sorry for the lateness of this one. School has been so hectic and I had to work pretty hard to get this done along with everything else that's been going on. I hope it's alright. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

On another note, I've been thinking: what age would you like Mike to be? I've said that he's a teenager, but haven't specified how young exactly, because I keep changing my mind. So… I'm leaving it up to you guys. If you have anything in particular in mind, (maybe a specific age you've always pictured?) then by all means, please do let me know. It's pretty flexible.

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>More than anything else, what astounds Harvey the most is the anger.<p>

By nature, he's quite a composed, reserved man; it's part of what makes him the best.

In this line of work, it's vital that you stay cool under pressure, and Harvey usually doesn't concern himself with tedious dramas unless he can potentially use them to his advantage later.

Nothing about this could possibly benefit the senior partner. Nor does it play to his strengths.

…Unless, of course, you're talking about his proficiency in boxing. But he'd do well to ignore those quick, injurious impulses at this present moment.

It's like every single instinct is goading him to _do_ something - to strike hard and not let up until his fists are sparked with the blood of at least one broken nose, letting that treacherous innermost part of him - an unsolicited outrage he so readily condemns, because the presence of such feelings _means_ something now and he can't deny it - rear its ugly head with the loathsome dearth of mercy.

The intensity of the desire is almost absurd, considering the complete and utter inapprop - No, that's not right. More like, the guaranteed, disastrous consequences. It would be appropriate, alright. Crazy, maybe, but also a perverted execution of justice.

The rage consumes him in an instant, and Harvey's never had a problem with anger management, but there's very little he can do to stop it when a voice scoffingly chokes out, as if teasing the other man for the dawdling which prevented bare hands from securing his unprotected throat:

"We were just _messing around_."

Harvey draws back and punches him square in the face.

* * *

><p><strong>-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-<strong>

**-0-o-0-o-0-**

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x-X-x 24 Hours Previously x-X-x

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><p>Mike splashes some cold water onto his face and once again, pinches his cheeks.<p>

Irritating the associate to no end, however, the paleness of his complexion is restored within minutes. No matter how many times he dabs scrunched up toilet paper at his forehead or twists and stretches his skin, Mike's appearance remains - at first glance - entirely unremarkable, until closer inspection reveals the fraught, pasty exterior which perfectly showcases all of the inner turmoil he so desperately wants to keep under wraps.

One look at him and Harvey will know something is up (no doubt putting those newly acquired 'gut feelings' to use, he can't help but bitterly think) and then he'll bug Mike until he spills.

_Well,_ he smirks, puffing up his chest, just call him Clark Kent 'cause he won't be spilling anything today!

At least… not again.

Harvey's interrogation skills are exemplary and not many can circumvent him, but Mike has to try.

He won't own up to hiding, but that flower-scented air-freshener the janitor sprayed while giving him the evil eye has done a extraordinarily poor job of masking his earlier bile and still, he's stuck around. If only to avoid offence, Mike wishes he could blame his little vomit-spree on some defective chicken wings from the night before, but in actual fact, he just freaked - pure and simple.

After running into Harvey in the corridor this morning and having him merely tut at his untucked shirt, maybe part of him had gotten his hopes up. Maybe part of him had thought that he could live a normal life and that Harvey could live his, working alongside each other in perfectly normal harmony, bickering back and forth, and it would be alright.

Maybe part of Mike had been in denial and then that all changed.

Because, yes, Harvey had tutted and carried on without breaking stride, but he should never have been so quick to celebrate the return of Harvey The Condescending Prick. Because the truth is… he never really left.

Harvey will still crack inappropriate jokes about Louis' non-existent wife, and he'll still be copiously ruthless in his terrorization of everyone he bumps into the day after the Yankees lose a game. He'll wear three-piece suits with shameless arrogance, his poised manner commanding respect from everyone he encounters, and listen to his cherished vinyl records with the smallest of smirks after breezing through yet another case.

But he'll do it all while listening with rapt attention as Mike babbles about the most mundane poppycock, a half-smile melting his previously frozen features, and ruffling his bogus 'son's' hair without thinking.

And Mike doesn't know how he feels about that.

He'd tried not to feel anything at all.

Imagine then, the shock, when he was on his way to deliver some files and overheard Donna lamenting, "Harvey, come on, you can't let that get to you. It was just a dream. Let it go."

And then, before he can make his presence known, his boss sweeping a hand through his hair and replying, "I know, I know. It's crazy. It wasn't real and yet, I can't shake this _feeling_..." He'd pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know. He's _not_ my son, I know that-"

"But.." Donna hesitated. "You sort of feel like his dad."

Perhaps it was the finality of the words, maybe there was a grave depth to them that seemed so out-of-place when speaking of an unrealistic dream which should have been inconsequential and swiftly forgotten, - a dream he can only guess at its contents - but that one line hit him harder than anything else since leaving Dr. Slater's unforgiving lab that afterwards, felt so far from reality.

In the end, Harvey might be the same old competitive, ego-centric guy with serious commitment issues, but here's the thing - he'd obviously never settled down for a _reason_ and this was never meant to be.

Harvey is being forced into fatherhood because of some failed experiment that turned Mike into some juvenile freak.

Nausea bubbling up his throat, Mike had bolted towards the bathrooms.

He hasn't surfaced since.

If he's honest, he's surprised his boss has yet to assemble a search party, (or who knows, maybe he has; Mike _has_ been ducking into the stalls every time someone enters, so he wouldn't be flushed out of his not-hideaway) but with every passing hour, he's becoming increasingly more aware of his advancing naptime and with all of these insecurities rattling about inside of him, Mike's yearning for comfort has sky-rocketed and there's only so much he can do.

The associate's resolve to relieve Harvey of these 'responsibilities' Dr. Slater mentioned is proving extremely difficult and Mike _knows_ that the more worked up he becomes, the more child-like he will act, but emotions are such fickle things and he never claimed to be perfect.

It's as though he can _feel_ his older self struggling with the reigns as any semblance of restraint crumbles.

Funny how his fear of losing control is the very thing that causes his downfall.

Mouth watering in anticipation, Mike' stomach sinks. Curbing the cravings are going to be much harder than he thought.

"I can fight this," he growls between clenched teeth, gripping the sink and staring hard at his reflection. "I won't. I'm not going to give in." Tears spring forth in his eyes and his fist slowly sidles upwards, unravelling…

Everything's falling apart.

"I won't," he vows, "I can do this." Hand shuddering, Mike turns his head away from the temptation.

Ha.

He has the bizarre urge to cackle. Like _that's_ going to help. His thumb is already arched and waiting. It's only a matter of time…

Mike runs his tongue along his lips and bites down hard enough to draw blood.

No. He _won't_.

But he really, really wants to.

Mike wants to prove himself and be a great lawyer. He wants to pay for his grandmother's care and still have some money left over to shell out for his rent each month and buy decent groceries with a low sugar content.

But there's also the part that longs to sleep in 'til noon because he simply couldn't be bothered, sprawling out on the sofa to watch re-runs of Doctor Who and reading books he's read a hundred times before. It's a nice fantasy, with little else to worry about beyond asking out girls with ill-timed zits and accepting that standing at the edge of the crowd is the only place he'll ever fit in. Mike has even found himself hoping to go to college, and the lines are so blurred that he can't tell anymore if it's because he'd like to redo his botched degree for securities' sake or because he'd like to go for real.

And then there's the here and now - the Mike who wants nothing more than to hug Harvey, who he knows is upset for some reason about something and pop his thumb into his mouth.

It feels as though he's being torn in so many directions, he can't tell left from right.

Unable to face Harvey; _needing_ to be near Harvey - the contradictions are endless.

Trying to protect Harvey, but failing, because how can he protect him from himself?

Especially when the door opens and before he can move a muscle, Mike hears:

"Oh, thank God," Donna cries upon seeing him. "You really know how to scare the living daylight's out everyone, don't you? Your da- I mean," She blows a breath, shaking her head before continuing, "_Harvey's_ worried silly." Giving him a cursory once-over, she doesn't seem to like what she finds. "Were you bored, sweetie? Is that it? Did someone decide to play a little game of hide-and-seek without telling anyone?"

More than a little uncomfortable, Mike shakes his head and stares down at his shoes, before feeling the need to shyly point out, "Donna, this is the men's room."

"It is?" Donna asks, feigning a frown. "Oh. Well, in that case, we'd better get a move on before someone sees us. You wouldn't want to get me in any trouble, would you?"

Amused by her dramatic tone despite himself, Mike gives a timid smile.

"Come on, then." She grins. "Let's put poor Harvey out of his misery."

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><p>As expected, the older man wastes no time shepherding him into the back of the limo. Part of Mike suspects that Harvey planned to take him home regardless of the reason for his disappearance - why else would Ray be conveniently at hand? It's not like there were any meetings or court cases scheduled - even if he'd merely been down at the hotdog stand (where Harvey had, in fact, checked, along with a whole list of ridiculous locations. Like, seriously? That microscopic excuse for a storage closet on the third floor? For the last time, he wasn't playing hide-and-seek!).<p>

The disappointment he will not admit to feeling when they arrive at his block, fades promptly when Harvey himself steps out and asks Ray to wait.

Heart nervously fluttering, Mike narrows his eyes and questions in suspicion, "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you pack suitably." He flicks a bored glance at the kid and rolls his eyes. "Don't look at me like that," Harvey adds, mistaking Mike's disbelief for insult. "Despite your eidetic memory, you're a pretty disorganized person. I'm just covering all of my bases."

When they reach his apartment, Mike struggles to dig up his key, and Harvey gives him a pointed look, as if to say, '_See_?'

After having his patience tested far beyond its limits with Harvey nagging about everything from the cups and plates piling up in his sink (a whole _five_ in total) to the unmade bed and the mismatched socks cropping up everywhere, Mike inwardly cheers when his boss finally - _finally_ - stops nitpicking about his personal cleanliness (which is clearly not up to scratch going by his upturned nose and the overall unimpressed vibes he's been emanating) and turns to leave, grumbling under his breath.

Mike gets it, he really does. He's not being intentionally overbearing. But it doesn't stop him from feeling a little insecure all the same. He doesn't want Harvey to evaluate his competency as an independent young man and find it lacking; Mike wants to be glowingly self-sufficient to the point where Harvey has _no_ room to criticize and _no_ reason to worry about anything, ever, regarding Mike.

When he puts it that way, it's a lot to ask. Hell, it's virtually impossible. And Mike wonders for a brief moment if he's setting himself up for failure and if it still counts as being responsible. He can't eliminate every risk of error, but he can damn well try.

"Hey, kiddo," Harvey catches his arm just before he hops in, "You okay? Stomach bothering you?"

Mike wriggles out of his grip.

"I told you, I'm not sick," he mumbles.

"And I told you, I'm not buying it. You got something on your mind, then just come out with it instead of bottling everything up all the time. I'm here to help."

"There's nothing _to_ say." Mike gnashes his teeth together and glares. "And even if there _were_, I wouldn't tell you anyway."

Harvey's brows rise so far, they disappear into his hairline.

"See?" he crows. "You've been acting tetchy all day."

"Have not," he pouts.

"I disagree. Either you were sick because of some virus of some sort or it's stress-related. In which case, I'd like to know what's so bad that you feel you can't come to me about it. Is it Louis?" he suddenly questions, eyes burning. "Is he blackmailing you again? Whatever it is, I won't get mad, I promise."

Wouldn't get mad, his arse. Like Mike can't _see_ the tightening of his jaw. Bloody hypocrite.

"It's not _anything_," Mike insists, heart hammering and hardening simultaneously. "Just leave me alone. _God_, can't a guy have _one_ bad day?" Then he jumps in before Harvey can say anything and slams the door.

Ray blinks but refrains from commenting.

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><p>After spending the entire journey glowering at a loose thread in his suit jacket and winding it around his thumb, Mike storms into Harvey's condo and immediately plops down onto the couch where he curls up and burrows under a discarded throw.<p>

He hears Harvey enter soon after and presumably sigh when he spots him.

Well, whatever. Who cares if he's sulking, anyway? He is perfectly entitled to his feelings!

To his dismay, not only does Harvey refuse to take the hint and leave him to his moping, he actually sits down on the other end of the couch and unfolds his laptop without a care in world, matching Mike's furious look with a defiant one of his own.

An hour of stewing in silence later and Mike is starting to regret his bratty actions as his limbs soak in the exhaustion which pervades his mind. Nuzzling the edge of the armchair with his nose, he snuffles quietly before murmuring forlornly, "Sorry, H'vey."

"I know, buddy. It's okay."

"S'not," he shakes his head. "Was bad."

Harvey moves closer to gently card his fingers through the boy's hair. "It's alright. Time to sleep."

Shaking his head once more, Mike snivels, "Don't want to."

"Don't want to?" Harvey echoes in confusion. "Why not?"

"Just-just don't want to," Mike simply blubbers, looking up at him with red, tear-stained cheeks.

Seeing that he's not getting anywhere, the older man sighs and glances around the room. Spying Mike's bag over by the door, he starts to stand before a hand reaches out and clings to his pants leg.

"M'sorry!" Mike wails. "Don't go!"

Harvey heart gives a painful lurch.

"I'll be right back, bud," he softly appeases. "Just two seconds, 'kay? Two little seconds."

Mike only continues to scowl, which Harvey realises he can't do anything about until he physically _leaves_ and then _returns_. After slowly prying the fingers off to the kid's displeasure, he quickly retrieves the desired object before crouching down beside Mike.

"Here you go, kiddo," Harvey says lowly. "This what you wanted?"

From a distance, it probably looks like nothing more than a ball of fluff, but to _Mike_, he instantly recognises-

"Jellybean!" he shrieks, smiling sleepily. Latching onto the fuzzy wolf, the boy rubs his cheek against the gray fur and settles the stuffed animal under his chin.

Harvey frowns. "Jellybean?"

Mike nods. "Uh-huh. I called him Jellybean because jellybeans are his absolute favouritest in the whole wide world, especially the purple ones that taste like cola, and he likes to gobble them up instead'f people."

As much as part of Harvey wants to beam at the overwhelming adorableness, the other half is much too horrified by the implications of that statement.

Eat people? He is _never_ letting Mike watch another scary movie again.

As for werewolves, (cartoon or otherwise) and Little Red Riding Hood? You can flipping _forget it._

But all he says is, "That's... nice."

"He also loves mud and spiders and Star Wars and dirt bikes, but I didn't think those names would suit him all that much."

"No," this time Harvey does grin, "No, somehow I don't think they would."

Yawning, Mike knuckles his eyes and adds, "And he likes you too, H'vey. He says you're the best."

The other man thinks that if his smile gets any brighter, his teeth might sparkle like in the commercials. "Does he now? Well, thank-you very much, Mr Jellybean," he replies warmly. "You seem pretty awesome yourself."

Mike giggles, eyes sparkling in delight.

"Now, come on," Harvey lightly scolds, tapping him on the nose. "No more distractions. It's time to sleep."

"But Jellybean's not tired," the kid announces.

"He looks pretty tired to me."

"He's not," Mike shakes his head quickly, "He _bursting_ with energy! He wants to go…to go, um.. _dancing_!"

Harvey can't help but burst out laughing.

"Is that so?" he chuckles. "Well, I'd be happy to take Jellybean dancing _after_ he's had a nap." Smirking, he teases, "I assume we're taking about ballet, no?"

Pulling a disgusted face, Mike retorts brusquely, "_No_."

"Hmm, tap dance?" He shakes his head. "Folk dance?" Another no. "How about Irish dance? Latin dance? _Interpretative_ dance? Which is it?"

"Harvey," Mike levels him with the driest of looks. "Jellybean only does the _wolf_ dance."

"In that case," Harvey softly responds as he smoothes a thumb over the pup's hair, pleased to see his eyes growing heavy despite Mike's best efforts, "I wish him all the best of luck."

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><p>When Mike wakes, he feels even more disjointed, caught between his differing selves.<p>

Although his mood seems much more stable than in the morning, the associate is still cautious, all too aware of how little he can truly trust himself.

Mike comes to the sudden realisation that the problem _behind_ his volatility is that he's been fighting it so hard. And so begins another oath. Backed by another untested theory.

At dinner, he eats all of his greens without much fuss despite _really_ hating broccoli, but finds himself slipping up and accidentally calling them _trees - _something he hasn't done since he was two years old and that was what he genuinely believed them to be.

Then afterwards when he doesn't want to shower but Harvey pushes him into taking one anyway, Mike cried for a good ten minutes because the water was too runny and the shampoo smelled funny.

The stress of trying to go along with everything, - chiefly the things that his younger self _doesn't_ want to do - in order to avoid a tantrum only increases the odds of having a tantrum, and Mike is left feeling like he can't get anything right. No matter where he turns, he faces opposition.

It's-he's just… He's just so damn tired.

Tired of blaming himself and tired of blaming Harvey.

Tired of keeping secrets; tired of wanting to tell his boss but having no idea _how _to go about explaining the unexplainable. But most of all, Mike's tired of wanting _things_ in general that he knows he'll never have.

Like true independence and a normal life.

Like… like a father in a man that never signed up to be one.

By bedtime, Mike is shattered and so, when he fails to track down his treasured blankie, he gives a big F-you to his pride and trails into the living room.

Skimming through some briefs and kneading his temples with one hand, the older man is bent over the countertop looking frustrated and worn out. Second thoughts bounding forward, Mike tries to quietly back away but the blasted floorboard creaks and Harvey's head automatically snaps up.

Curiosity sharpens his gaze as he takes in Mike's bedraggled hair, clean-pressed pyjamas and bare feet.

"What's up, pal?" he wonders, straightening. "How come you aren't asleep?"

Swallowing his anxiety, Mike bites his lip and answers, "Uh, it's nothing, really. I was wondering… have you seen my-my, uh-" He rubs the back of his head, fluffing up his own hair and shuffling awkwardly.

"Spit it out, kiddo," the other man drawls with a touch of amusement. "Whaddya need?"

"Do you know where I left my…er, my blanket?"

Harvey's eyes pounce onto his - whether due to Mike's all-too-transparent agitation or the question itself remains unseen, but Mike suddenly wishes he were anywhere else, shifting under the scrutiny.

"In the wash," Harvey replies carefully, his emerging frown mimicking the kid's. "Why?"

"No reason," Mike claims, unable to pull off the intended indifference as he twiddles his thumbs. "It's just… how am I supposed to-to… you know…" He coughs, cheeks flushing.

Pressing his lips together to mask his smile, Harvey says, "I have other blankets, buddy."

"Yeah, but-" he cuts off, frown deepening.

"But what?"

"It's not the _same_," Mike complains as tears well in his eyes. He sniffs. "I don't _want_ another blanket!"

Harvey blinks. This is obviously not at all what he'd expected.

There's a moment of silence as the other man considers this.

"Well," he suddenly says, rubbing his chin in feigned thought. "I know trucks and racecars are great and all, but do you know who's even cooler?"

Mike glances up at him inquisitively. "Who?"

Lowering his voice dramatically, Harvey breathes, "Spider Man."

"Spider Man?" Mike parrots, smiling faintly.

"Uh-huh." He nods quickly. "He's awesome. Always saving the day and um, swinging from buildings and fighting bad guys," Harvey improvises in a cheerful, persuasive tone that verges on ridiculous. He knows little to nothing about superheroes, but Mike doesn't need to know that.

"Yeah, but-but-" Looking dangerously close to stamping his foot, Mike whines, "I don't _have_ a Spider Man blanket!"

"Are you sure?" Harvey asks, forcing a puzzled frown. "Because I was _certain_ that I bought one a few days ago… Silly me. I must've imagined it!"

Now _Mike's_ feeling kind of silly. What if he has had a cooler blanket all along?

"Well," the boy chews on his thumb, "I don't know that I _don't_ have one."

"Have you looked?"

"Well, no…"

"Then you know what you have to do, don't you?" Harvey says gravely.

"…Check?"

He nods.

"It's the only way."

The best thing was that Harvey never informed Mike _where_ he'd stashed the bedspread and so, laughing ecstatically the entire time, the kid raced around the condo in search for over an hour, prompted by the older man's vague clues, and fell asleep snuggling into a unremarkable, run of the mill red and blue blanket with a triumphant smile on his face.

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><p>The next day, things <em>really<em> started to go downhill.

In the morning, Harvey and Mike had squabbled over the associate's insistence that he work in the bullpen with everyone else instead of camping out in the senior partner's office, - firmly against any kind of special treatment - while the other man insisted that he needed to stay close for a reason that he had such difficulty defining that Mike felt bad and let him off the hook.

They eventually came to a reluctant agreement (reluctant on _both_ sides. Can I have a _yay_ for compromise) that Mike could work alongside the others, but that Harvey would check in at random intervals to see that everything ran smoothly.

And run smoothly it did - at least until the other's started noticing their superior's mysterious pop ups and naturally assumed that something important was happening (like they were getting judged or evaluated or some crap like that). Mike did his best to brush if off, but they weren't for backing down easily.

"Ross, come on, we know you know."

"Yeah," Gregory chimes, "Why so secretive, Golden boy? Trying to trick us or something?"

"Or maybe he's just _afraid_," Kyle taunts, grinning wickedly, "That Specter's finally come to his senses and realised what a lame-ass lawyer he hired. Maybe he's considering a replacement, eyeing up the candidates. What's the chances? Maybe Twinkle Toes here _doesn't_ know."

"Look, guys, can we just drop it, okay? Some of us are trying to work here." Mike's suddenly regretting his choice not to run and hide in Harvey's office when he had the chance. If he leaves now, it'll just look like he can't handle it and then he'll _never_ get to strike any similar bargains to proof his trustworthiness ever again.

"Not _you_, that's for sure," Kyle scoffs, voice drenched in derision. "What'd you get today? Three briefs? Man, I could get that done in an _hour_."

"Yes, okay. I'm sure you could."

"No, really. What's up with that? Don't think we haven't noticed the unfair distribution of our workload. You been slacking off, Ross?"

"Kyle, if you have so much time on your hands that you can say with one-hundred percent certainty just how much work I actually get done in a day, then maybe _you're_ the one slacking off."

At this point, Mike's just talking through his ass. He knows his work has been meagre as of late; he doesn't need any additional attention called to his incompetence. It's already there - in the pitiful stack of files he was allocated this morning.

Choruses of, _"Ooh, buuurn," _resound through the bullpen, but Mike just rolls his eyes and carries on proof-reading. Or at least he does until a hand smacks down on top of his, stilling his movements.

His whole being freezes, the blood in his veins turning cold.

"You think you can take me, Pretty Boy?" Kyle whispers feverishly, balls of spit spewing onto Mike's turned-away face, which he then holds in place. "You think I can't beat you to a pulp if I wanted to? Like I _do_ want to? The only reason you're still here is because Specter feels _sorry_ for you. Do you get that? You are so _pathetic_ that even the most cold-hearted of bastards feels like it wouldn't be _sporting_ to a - what is it? Oh, yeah, to kick a _pup_ when it's down."

"Shut-up, Kyle," Mike snarls, infuriated and scared, and aggravated because he really wants Harvey and where _is_ he?

"Don't you think it's _funny_?" he sneers. "Hilarious, really. Everyone thinks so. The way you look at him like he's the centre of the goddamn universe and he looks at you like you're nothing more than a puppy-dog eyed _child_ who can't be trusted not to shove crayons-" Kyle pauses, chuckling. "Or in your case, _highlighters_ up his nose."

That hits closer to home than Mike would like to admit.

Helpless to prevent it, he feels his eyes begin to water. But before he can embarrass himself further, a voice ominously rumbles, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

And Kyle damn near jumps out of his skin.

"Nothing, sir," he stutters, tripping in his haste to turn. "Absolutely nothing."

"Would you care to explain _why_ you were fisting my associate's collar?"

In that moment, Harvey has never looked more frightening. His eyes are on fire, burning a hole into the quivering man's head with scarcely restrained fury.

It would be mesmerizing if Mike weren't suddenly so afraid for Kyle's life.

Kyle, on the other hand, looks like he might wet his pants.

Striving for nonchalance in an exceptionally stupid lapse of judgement, he scoffs, "We were just _messing_ _around_."

For that comment alone, part of Mike thinks he kind of deserves the fist which soon connects with his face.

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><p>There's a moment of stunned silence.<p>

Then, in a explosion of energy and haste, disbelieving chaos all at once.

Arms are suddenly fixed around his, restraining Harvey as he thrashes for a moment without really trying to break free, breathing hard as his nostrils irately flare.

He allows himself to be dragged off to one side as the crowd of spectators swarm the victim. Red gushes down Kyle's flummoxed face, and the general atmosphere of the bullpen seems to be, '_Did that seriously just happen?' _as employees struggle to comprehend how the great Harvey Specter, of all people, could precipitately lose his shit.

"What the hell is the matter with you?!" At the sound of Mike's strained voice cracking in distress, he abruptly stills. "Harvey, will you calm the fuck down?! _Jesus_."

Only weakly incapacitated and uncontrollably furious, he growls, "That son of a bitch just tried to threaten and humiliate you!"

"_Seriously_? _That's _your biggest concern right now?!" the kid cries incredulously and it's enough to knock some sense back into Harvey and smother the blinding fury. "That 'son of a bitch' is bleeding thanks to you!"

"Yes, but he just-"

"It doesn't matter _what_ he did! You _assaulted_ him, Harvey!"

Holy crap - he really did.

Gazing down at his blood-spattered knuckles and slowly unclenching his still-fisted hand, Harvey sags, feeling the grip around his shoulders loosen.

How could he have let his anger get the better of him? He has so much more self-restraint than that! Sweet Jesus - what has he done? How could he have been so _stupid_?

And then another voice, soft but unforgiving: But the tool hurt _Mike_-

Dragging a hand through his hair, the senior partner breathes, "I know, I know..." He swallows hard. "I-I don't know what came over me."

Mike's face suddenly warps into the strangest of expressions. If the other man's not mistaken, it looks… it looks almost like guilt.

He licks his lips and offers nervously, "Gotta say, though, whatever kind of evil spirit or demon possessed you, it was pretty badass. That was one helluva punch." But the attempt at light-heartedness, unsurprisingly, falls flat.

Especially when Mike's hand then reaches up, thumb seeking his lips.

"Hey, hey," Harvey scolds with a grimace, as he tugs the hand away before the boy can sink his teeth into it. "None of that, buddy. We talked about this, remember? What did I say?"

Mike studiously averts his eyes and mumbles, "It's-it's icky."

Not his exact wording, but close enough.

"Uh-huh," he nods. "So no more silly nipping your skin, okay? You might need those hands someday."

"Yes, sir," Mike murmurs, even as he rubs his nose with the spare hand that will undoubtedly inch towards his mouth as soon as Harvey looks the other way.

He sighs.

"Listen," Harvey begins, "I'm sorry, kiddo. I never should have reacted like that. It was wrong and you should never do that." He scowls, muttering to himself, "What kind of example am I setting if I retaliate using violence every time someone pisse-uh," he swiftly changes tracks, "Ticks me off?"

Eyes widening, Mike hurries to assure, "Nothing! No example whatsoever! I'm a big boy-" He cringes at the wording, before gritting his teeth and amending, "I'm a grown _man_, who can make up his own mind. As my _boss_ and occasional mentor, I look to you for guidance and professional advice, but beyond that, my choices are my own to accept full accountability."

"Okay…" Harvey frowns. Kid's acting weird. "Are you-are you feeling okay? I didn't-" Flinching, he hesitantly asks, "I didn't scare you, did I?"

"God, no!"

He doesn't _sound_ afraid. "And you're alright?"

"No reason not to be," Mike laughs, voice wavering slightly.

Harvey wonders if it's possible the pup's going into shock and denial, before concluding that it seems highly likely, given the way he's acting.

"I did just punch a man and the cops will probably be here any minute."

"Well, yes," Mike grants, still sounding off. "All I'm saying is that I am psychologically sound and not at all traumatized by this turn of events."

Brow tightening, the older man hums in not-quite agreement.

"I'm not!" he exclaims defensively, shrill voice compromising his credibility just a tad.

"I never said you were," Harvey responds calmly.

"You don't have to," Mike rebuts. "You have that look in your eye. The same one you always get every time I tell you that I've already brushed my teeth and you don't believe me."

His lips curve into an involuntary smirk. "Well, I'm sorry that it's so easy to recognize a blatant lie from a terrible liar."

"For the last time, I am not-"

Whatever retort Mike was about to provide, dies on his lips when a sudden hush ensnares the entire room. Spines stiffen and many straighten to full height and attempt to enrich their discreditable appearance with an adjusted tie here and a sweaty palm wipe down the front of their pants there (looking at you, Harold).

All gazes lock on the slim figure that has graced the silent bullpen, expression smooth and impenetrable, and the senior partner shares an ever-so-slightly nervous glance with Mike, who shrinks back behind him.

"Harvey," Jessica addresses him with quiet irritation only he can discern from the pleasant coolness. "My office. Now."

He ignores the other occupants of the room and reassuringly squeezes the pup's shoulder, before setting his jaw and sauntering up to one seriously pissed off managing partner.

Pasting on a prickly smile as he reaches her side, Jessica leans down to murmur lowly into his ear, "You and I both know this talk is _long_ overdue."

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><p><em>Oh, no : I would_ not_ want to be in Harvey's position, having to face the wrath of Jessica Pearson. Love the character to pieces and all, but damn, she can be scary when she wants to be._

And poor Mike. Let's hope he doesn't continue to wallow in self-pity (although he's entirely entitled to when you think about it). Even if it does make him do super cute stuff.

As always, thanks for reading! :D


	6. Hold Your Ground

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**CHAPTER FIVE:**

Hold Your Ground

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><p><strong>AN: **This chapter was kinda difficult to write purely because I was having trouble sitting in one place and focusing. I kept thinking, 'Oh, it's alright. I'll fiddle around with this for a bit and then tomorrow, I'll write properly,' without _really_ getting anything done. So sorry for that. I guess when you're writing the same piece for a while, you sort of forget sometimes that there are people who are still interested and would ideally like an update sooner rather than later. Basically, this one sort of lost its urgency and I'll try to do better next time.

I've also noticed a recurring trend in my author's notes. I really need to stop apologising ;)

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language and the almost-certainly incorrect Star Trek references (Never seen it, so blame Google for any inaccuracies). _

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><p><strong>Previously<strong> -pasting on a prickly smile as he reaches her side, Jessica leans down to murmur lowly into his ear, "You and I both know this talk is _long _overdue."

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><p>"Before you say anything, can I just point out that this is a really expensive tie which now has specks of some douchebag's blood on it that will probably stain forever," the senior partner drawls, folding himself tastefully on the couch, posture perfect and smug and positively itching for a slap across the face. He even has the audacity to smirk, "Don't you think I've suffered enough?"<p>

"Harvey," Jessica all but growls, "I am sincerely _not _in the mood-"

"No, seriously," he persists, because you'd have to cram the damn thing down his throat if you ever intended for Harvey Specter to eat a humble pie. "Not only will this serve as a reminder of my mistake, but it's a pretty considerable loss on my part and, in my professional opinion, an excellent deterrent. I genuinely think I've learned my lesson on this one, so if we could just skip-"

"That is _enough_," the managing partner breaks in, glaring fiercely. "You are not talking your way out of this one, Harvey. A cheeky grin isn't going to cut it this time."

"Jessica, look," Harvey sighs. "I know I screwed up-"

"Do you?" she counters, unforgiving hand on hip. "Because the jokes you've been cracking left, right and centre, don't exactly promote the notion that you're all that cut up about it."

"I'm _sorry_, alright?" he drags, looking utterly bored and not the least bit chastised. "I'll take care of it."

"Take care of it?" she repeats incredulously, lips twitching in gratifying patronization. "And just how do you suppose you're going to do that?" Pausing as he shifts in annoyance, Jessica stalks towards him, smile slipping. "Let's get one thing clear, Harvey. You are in no position to sit there and act like you have any goddamn power over this. In fact, your word is about as useful to me right now as that damn kid's imaginary law degree."

"Now, wait just a goddamn minute-" the senior partner snaps irately.

Pleased to finally get a genuine reaction out of him, Jessica decides to rile him up a little more.

"Let's look at the facts, shall we?" she coolly proposes. "You assaulted a subordinate in front of a throng of witnesses unprovoked, so there goes your grounds for plausible deniability. Should the associate decide to press charges, you _will_ go down for it, even though I sure as hell will do my part to bail you out. The firm's reputation will be jeopardized and there will undoubtedly be clients - high-profile, influential clients - who will take their business elsewhere. Had it been someone with a lesser status than yours, - maybe another quiet, low key partner - then the fallout probably wouldn't be so great, but because it's _you_-" She pauses, mouth twisting wryly. "You can bet your ass both competitors and clientele will be _very_ interested in how the best damn closer in the city could react with such spectacular unprofessionalism. And honestly?" Slowly shaking her head, his friend and boss adds, "I find myself wondering the exact same thing."

He grimaces. "Jessica…"

"It was reckless and impulsive," Jessica states harshly. "Face it, Harvey. You let your anger get the better of you and now I'm the one who has to clean up your shit."

Fisting his hair, Harvey demands in frustration, "Can you at least hear me out? The guy was harassing _Mike_. I couldn't just stand idly by and let that jackass continue bullying the kid. I'm not saying what I did was right, trust me; I should have dealt with it better. But that doesn't change the fact that he definitely had it coming."

Passionate and unwavering, it's his eyes that surprise her the most.

Jessica has never seen Harvey like this.

He's not totally unrepentant, she can see that. But his attitude seems to be that anyone who dares mess with Mike deserves what they get, which is the farthest thing from what she's come to expect.

The man has always been protective of the kid despite his claims, but this... this is _personal_. He cares deeply for his associate in a way that rivals even his closeness and fierce loyalty to Donna or even Jessica herself - an attachment he could never seem to achieve romantically because sooner or later, the commitment-phobe can't help but shut down. He is defensive and concerned, and by some small miracle, he's not even remotely attempting to screen it. It's as if the senior partner feels he has every right to be.

Damn.

Jessica never thought she'd see the day that Harvey Specter acted like a father.

"Whether you personally feel his actions merited your own hostility or not is neither here nor there," she responds unbendingly, nevertheless. "This is only Kyle's second week back following his suspension, and you go and pull a stupid stunt like this? Tell me, how is that supposed to help Mike? I don't care if it was an 'in the moment' kind of thing, because the Harvey Specter that _I_ know would never lose control and then make excuses for it. You have been perfectly content to sit on the sidelines and let Louis handle the situation up until now and I fail to see how that could possibly have changed."

Harvey's entire body goes rigid.

His voice is tight and controlled when he slowly asks, "What _situation_?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Harvey." She rolls her eyes. "Mike's history with the other associates is far from squeaky clean and you can't possibly expect me to believe that you are not well-versed in-"

"Allow me to rephrase. What 'situation,'" he questions scathingly, air quotes at the ready, "Is Louis handling and why the hell don't I know about it?"

Jessica pauses. "Are you telling me that you _didn't_ know of Kyle's suspension?"

"Do I _look_ like I knew?" he fires back, eyes darkening. "As far as I could see, this incident was a one-time thing, but apparently, I was mistaken. What else have you been keeping from me? Just what are we talking about here?"

"I assure you, Harvey, it was not my intention to keep this a secret," the managing partner frowns. "I was under the impression that Louis had spoken with you regarding the issue-"

"So Louis is to blame, then? He's the reason I was left in the dark?" Harvey bites. "Mike is _my_ associate and if he's been a victim of gross misconduct, then I should have been the first to know. I want to know how that little prick got away with what was essentially a slap on the wrist when, given today's performance, he should have been thrown out, no hesitation. It's clear he hasn't reformed and I wonder at Louis' ability to deal with the situation _whatever_ the situation is that he didn't see fit to enlighten _me_."

By the end, the lawyer is breathing hard, chest heaving.

Taken aback by the extent of his anger, Jessica attempts to mollify, "I'm sure that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation-"

"I very much doubt that," he interrupts, tone brazenly derisive. "Mike is _my_ responsibility and there is no excuse for not informing the _one_ person who is supposed to protect him."

And with that, it suddenly hits her. There lay the real root of the problem.

Sure, Harvey is furious for not being told, but he's also berating himself for not having _seen_. In his mind, it's his duty to keep Mike safe, and he failed. He wasn't there for the boy when he needed him and that is - apparently - a wholly unforgivable offence.

Jessica can try all she likes, but she can't prohibit it - the managing partner feels herself softening. She just feels so damn _proud_, all of a sudden.

"Harvey," she says gently, "I understand you're upset, but now is not the time-"

"You're goddamn right I'm upset! I _knew_ there was something bothering him but he wouldn't tell me!"

He stops, brows wrinkling, before murmuring in a small, crestfallen voice unlike anything she's ever heard from him before, "Why didn't he tell me?"

Hesitantly taking a seat beside him, Jessica sighs, reaching out to awkwardly rub his shoulder in comfort. This is all new territory - for both of them. "Maybe he didn't want you to think any less of him," she speculates after a few moments.

He snorts. "Or maybe he assumed I'd be a heartless jerk and sneer at him for making a fuss over it."

Wincing because there is an element of truth to that too, the managing partner offers, "At this point, all you can do is be supportive and show that you'll be there for him no matter what. Hopefully in the future, he'll feel he can lean on you a bit more."

"But what if he doesn't?" Harvey worries, glancing at her almost nervously.

She toughens her voice. "Simple. You try harder."

Part of her is tempted to laugh at the absurdity. For God's sake, is she really doling out _parenting_ advice? What is the world coming to?

It's a moment Jessica knows she will file away to examine later. That kid has Harvey wrapped around his finger, that's for sure, and the funny thing is, he'd probably be the last person to recognise it, too.

The office is silent for a handful of minutes, both minds busy processing, before the senior partner glimpses at the clock on the far wall and his eyes narrow.

"Hang on a second…" he puzzles out, brows furrowing. More silence, then: "He's not going to press charges, is he?"

She keeps her expression blamelessly blank.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You just wanted to make me sweat," Harvey claims, voice sharpened with disbelief as he jumps up and glowers. When she fails to take the bull by the horns and chime in with a surefire defence, only continuing to gaze back steadily, he adds confidently, "If that little jerkwad was going to do anything, the cops would have shown up already."

"Harvey," A grin slowly breaks out on her face. "He can't do jack shit. If he did, we'd nail him for harassment and file for instant dismissal. You seriously thought this was his first offence?" She chuckles quietly at his naivety.

Shaking his head, the lawyer exclaims, "I can't believe you!"

"Rest assured, this is not the first time that 'jerk-wad' has gotten into trouble with the law and it won't be the last."

One. Two. Three-

"You have dirt on him," Harvey accuses, both irritated and impressed in equal parts.

Tilting her head to one side, Jessica doesn't have to curve her lips to smile. "Better question: who _don't_ I have dirt on?"

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><p>From his right, Mike can see Donna shooting his jiggling leg a death glare he tries not to take too personally.<p>

He knows that his restless movements must be annoying the hell out of her, but he can't help it.

Mike's packed with nervous energy, worried about Harvey namely, but also about the uncertain state of his job, and to a degree, he's wondering about Kyle and whether or not his nose is, in effect, fractured. Staying still is becoming increasingly more difficult and all the associate wants to do is jump up and run (maybe even throw in a couple of crazy star-jumps) until he gets it out of his system, but he can't - or, at least, he won't - because he needs to stick around to find out the final verdict on Harvey.

This isn't the first time that his boss has been in the doghouse with Jessica, but it is the only time that Mike has ever had an infallible cause to be concerned. Donna keeps telling him everything will work out, and it's clear that she does truly believe what she's saying and is not just bullshitting him, but he doesn't let himself hope.

He did just see him punch a guy, after all.

Around the same time he begins chomping on his wrist just for something to do, the heavens take mercy on him. The redhead's gasp alerts him of Harvey's arrival and his hanging head shoots up.

Spreading his arms as wide as his grin, Harvey announces, "Well, that's that. I'm free to go. The twerp's not pressing charges."

"What? How come? What happened?" Donna grills, to which the man simply laughs.

"Let's just say, Jessica can be very... persuasive," he replies evasively, but he should have known she wouldn't be dissuaded that easily.

Eyes sparkling, the woman questions, "She still mad?"

"Not _mad,_ exactly," he hedges. "Though she certainly won't be in any hurry to forget. I, on the other hand, would like to put the incident behind me as soon as possible. Violence is wrong, lesson learned. Ready to let it go?"

"Depends. You going to apologise?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Hell, no."

"Then we're good," Donna says brightly. "So long as we're on the same page."

Smirking, Harvey poses, "Was there ever any doubt?"

She beams. "Oh, we were on the brink of a marital crisis."

After that, it's only a matter of herding Mike into his coat and pushing him out the door.

As guilty as Mike feels about their spur of the moment day off, Harvey has no such qualms and is dedicated to keeping the youngster's mind off the earlier events of the morning. Donna accompanies them when they go out for lunch, the two 'adults' light-heartedly ribbing each other and doggedly attempting to draw him into the conversation while he unenthusiastically pushes his fork around, which soon results in Harvey telling him off for playing with his food. Afterwards, they convene in the living area of the condo and Donna bribes Mike into watching Tangled with the promise of mini-marshmallows and a steamy mug of hot chocolate. Harvey hadn't exactly approved of her methods, but did seem pleased that the kid seemed to come out his shell a little, perking up midway through the film and shooting question after question about the plot at a thoroughly amused Donna. The fact that he still had Jellybean's foot lodged in his mouth tampered his relief somewhat, but hey, at least the boy was speaking.

The ball at the pit of Mike's stomach doesn't weaken, though, as he waits for the lecture he recognises is looming on the horizon. All of the distractions only succeed for so long before he glances over at his boss and the anxiety returns full-force. The last thing he wants is to have to divulge intimate details of the malicious behaviour of his colleagues the past three months, all the while knowing that Harvey is disappointed in him.

When the time comes for Donna to leave, Mike scarcely restrains himself from flinging his arms around her neck and pleading within an inch of his life for the woman to take him with her.

Yet, to Mike's surprise, Harvey doesn't pressure him into spilling the goods. He doesn't demand answers or seek any specifics. He doesn't ask why Mike kept the issue to himself or play the I-thought-you-trusted-me card.

Before leaving to prepare dinner, the lawyer simply pats his knee and says, "I'm here for you, got it? If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. I won't judge or rush to fix it; I'll just listen, okay?" Taking advantage of Mike's silence as he all but gapes in shock, Harvey sums up, "Just remember that I'm always willing to help and I'd never do anything that you're uncomfortable with."

Mike blinks.

Huh.

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><p>It isn't over-the-top.<p>

It is a legitimate testimony now, which Mike can state with one-hundred percent sincerity and not feel the least bit unjust.

His body, volatile and vindictive as it is, has officially declared war. And he's on the losing side.

Looking back, the night had started out innocent enough. Following his talk with Harvey, Mike was dog-tired after a tension-filled day, kneading his eyes and blinking profusely, and had crawled into bed gratefully. Not before saying goodnight to Harvey, of course - a night-time ritual which is now somehow comprised of a warm hug and a habitual hair ruffle, something he's not certain when or how came to pass. It didn't feel strange to totter into what he'd taken to terming 'his' room after inarticulately mumbling a 'night-night' to his boss, while suckling leisurely on his slimy thumb, blankie slung over one shoulder. Nor was it weird for Harvey to then - for the fifth time that week - remind him to deposit his grubby socks in the wash instead of sketchily shedding and abandoning them on the floor.

What _was _odd, however, was the ring of warmth staining the saturated sheets which Mike strongly suspected wasn't caused by sweat as well as his incriminating damp pyjama bottoms when he rouses early the next morning.

For a moment, he doesn't dare to breathe.

Doesn't dare to believe.

He, Mike Ross of questionably mature status, has just-he just-how could he really wet-

One infinitesimal movement and he _feels_ rather than hears the muted squelch.

Gnawing on his already fragile psyche, it starts somewhere deep inside - wringing out his stomach muscles and crushing his ribs, a cramping of his diaphragm as his spinal cord judders, gagging on air in a hopelessly dedicated bid to keep the tears at bay.

Mike shoves a fist into his mouth to asphyxiate his cries, chest heaving with the tremendous force of his distress as his jaw clenches around his flesh. Against his best efforts, a sob breaks loose, nostrils flaring in clipped, vehement exhales.

He's shaking all over, rocking mechanically.

_This is it, _Mike thinks. This is what it's come to.

It has never been as clear as it is right then that it-it's over. His life - as he knows it - is _over_. Just like that.

By now, one would imagine he'd have at least semi-accepted his doom, but nothing could have prepared him for this. The young associate honestly did not see this one coming and he's blind-sided and betrayed, and the grief alone for what-will-never-be is very nearly all-consuming.

It simply isn't _fair_. Nobody promised Mike the world, but he just went ahead and bloody well dreamed of it anyway. It feels like everything he has worked so hard for is being ripped away from him just as he's finally getting his shit together.

And the fact that his automatic reaction is to cry like a goddamn overgrown baby? Just pisses him off all the more.

Perhaps in the back of his mind, Mike registers the oncoming footsteps hurrying down the hall or the door being wrenched open, but for the most part, he's too immersed in his battle of really, really trying not to break down.

Safe to say, mission failed.

"Mike, puppy, are you o-" Harvey cuts off, freezing.

Gaze drawn to the sickening, soiled state of the boy's bed, his boss's face crumples in understanding marred by bald-faced sympathy, while Mike's cheeks are engulfed in flames, wishing more than anything that someone would shoot him in the head and put him out of his misery. It would be the humane thing to do.

The humiliation that burns through his system is unbearable.

"Aw, buddy…"

Mike whimpers.

"Didn't-didn't mean to!"

"I know you didn't, puppy," Harvey soothes, spurred into action. "It's okay." Careful to avoid the soaked area, he perches on the edge of the bed and brings Mike into a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to his temples and relaxingly rubbing his back.

"Didn't-didn't-" Rubbing his congested nose, the kid hiccups. "Didn't mean to, H'vey. M'sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, kiddo," Harvey states firmly, but Mike turns away and refuses to look at him. Brows bunching, the older man gently grasps his chin and tilts his head towards him, before declaring, "I mean it, Mike. This is not your fault. I don't blame you and I don't want you blaming yourself."

He shakes his head, eyes rimmed red and stubbornly leaking. "But I'm not a'spposed to-"

"Mike, seriously, it's okay," Harvey repeats, meeting his anguished gaze unflinchingly. His grip tightens as he attempts to placate, "Little boys have accidents all the time. It's no big deal-"

Mike stills.

Like an elastic band snapping into place, a dash of adult (_teenage_) comprehension is restored. Enough for him to counter with uncharacteristic coldness, "I'm not a little boy."

Harvey blinks.

"What?"

"I'm not a little boy," he repeats, a muscle in his cheek compressing. "I'm a man. A fully fledged man." Shrugging out of the lawyer's offhand embrace, arm falling away, Mike grits, "Remember?"

"I know that," he replies, but Harvey looks visibly uncertain, forehead tight as if blasted by a sudden headache. "I'm just saying-"

"Why are you here, anyhow? I _know_ I didn't make that much noise."

"I-I-"

"Do you check on me? At night?" Mike doesn't even give him a chance to answer before shaking his head and scoffing in disbelief, "Scratch that. What am I saying? Of course, you do. But that still doesn't explain how you knew I was upset now. It's way too early for you to be up."

Any other day and that look on Harvey's face would have made him back-pedal, but his pride has just taken a severe blow (don't forget, he's imprisoned by the evidence of his own disgrace. Ha - _forget_. He won't ever forget) and Mike is as merciless as his goddamn lazy bladder.

"Don't feed me any bullshit, either, about how you just magically 'knew' or whatever. I want the truth."

Dark eyes roaming over his hard, cynical expression, the senior partner shifts and all of a sudden, like the flick of a switch, it's Harvey The Bastard Lawyer seated beside him, not Harvey I've-Only-Got-Your-Best-Interests-At-Heart. Or maybe they're just one and the same, Mike can't tell anymore. And he doesn't really care to, at any rate.

Cool and unflustered, he juts out his chin and if he'd been wearing a tie, Mike supposes he would have ran a blasé hand along the silky fabric to smooth it. "The truth?" Harvey double-checks, blatantly appraising him.

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Alright, tough guy. I didn't have a damn Spidey-sense tingling. Neither did the situation call for freakin' super-powers. You wanna know how I knew?" Smirking like the goddamn jackass he is, Harvey shrugs, "Because I installed a baby-monitor nearly two weeks ago."

"You-you what?" Mike stutters.

He did not just hear what he thinks he just heard.

"Yeah. I did. And, you know what else?" Voice drenched in sarcasm, he affirms, "Shocker of shockers, I'm not sorry, either."

"Harvey, you-you have no right!" the associate rages, spluttering in incredulity, "That is a gross invasion of privacy! How _could_ you?!"

"Surprisingly easily, actually. I just walked into the store, asked the salesclerk which brand he'd recommend and hey presto, there you go; I had my very own sophisticated walkie talkie."

"You're a dick."

"And you're an annoying, ungrateful pain in my backside. I didn't do it for kicks, Mike. I had my reasons and honestly, I'm under no real obligation to share them with you."

"I think the electrical device you've been using to spy on me would argue otherwise."

"And I think that until you drop that holier-than-thou attitude, my lips are sealed."

Blowing out an exasperated breath, Mike gathers his composure and asks almost evenly, "Can you please explain to me why you felt the need to put me under surveillance behind my back?"

"You know," Harvey purses his lips, "I'm not really feeling it."

"Tough shit," Mike promptly returns. "It's as close are you're gonna get."

Sighing in sudden seriousness, the senior partner scrubs a hand over his face and confides, "Listen, kiddo. I get that you're angry, and to some extent, I even get that you have every right to be. But try and see this from my perspective for a minute, alright? It wasn't an easy decision on my part."

Narrowing his eyes, the kid points out, "But you said you didn't regret it."

"I know what I said and I still stand by it. I won't apologise. But that doesn't signify that I _wanted_ to do it. It was purely necessity."

"You lost me. How exactly was such an outrageously extreme measure necessary?"

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Actually, it's not as extreme as you might think, okay? I only switch it on at night, and I mean it when I say that I don't take it lightly." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he pauses, considering, before continuing, "You were having a lot of nightmares, Mike. Or at least, you weren't sleeping very peacefully. I was-" He swallows, "I was worried. So I'd…I would-Sometimes-"

Mike cocks his head, frowning slightly as he prompts, "You would…?"

"I'd sing to you, okay?" the other man confesses as if it physically pains him. "I'd sing a few verses of something or another. It never really mattered what. And then you'd… you'd be fine. I tried other crap, too. Like, playing some classical music or soothing meditation tracks so that I wouldn't be constantly getting up to see if maybe you were unsettled, but nothing worked. Then as soon as I opened my mouth…"

He trails off, mouth tight, and doesn't finish. But he doesn't need to.

Feeling an involuntary pang of guilt, Mike wonders, "Why didn't you tell me? Why don't I know about this?"

"You're an exceptionally deep sleeper," Harvey says plainly. "And I didn't really see the sense in bringing it up."

Well, shoot.

There goes his righteous indignation.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Mike stares down at his lap and plays with his fingers, before timidly offering, "I'm, uh, I'm sorry, Harvey. I had no idea."

Oh, God. Now he feels terrible.

"Tell you what," Harvey murmurs, carding his fingers through the pup's hair and smiling softly. "So long as you promise to sit through Star Trek without saying a single thing about Captain Kirk's sideburns, we can call it even. Sound fair?"

"Mm.. It'll be pretty hard…" he drawls, chewing on his bottom lip. "But I think I can manage that. Probably. Maybe. On second thought, you've set the bar far too high. No comments? At all? That's damn near impossible. C'mon, they're _pointy_."

Harvey grins. "Yeah, yeah. Just try alright?"

"Well, that's entirely subjective, but sure. Sounds neat-o."

"Neat-o?"

He half-shrugs. "Would you prefer cheato?"

Huffing a breath of amusement, Harvey rolls his eyes and changes the subject. "Come on, champ." He bumps his shoulder. "We should probably get you changed out of those wet clothes. It's almost bright outside, anyway. You get dressed; I'll tackle this end of things. Then we can go get an early breakfast." Seeing Mike's face fall, he pastes on nonchalance and entices, "It'll be great. Look, one time only deal: I'll make pancakes. Whaddya say?"

Peeking up out of the corner of his eye, the kid hesitantly nods. Mike can't quite contain his grimace, though, when his bottoms slowly peel away from the sheets as he rises and the damp patch around his crotch becomes visible. Yet Harvey seems unperturbed, and it is from him that he draws the strength to shuffle out of his dirty garments and into a clean pair of pants. The relief is instantaneous.

It isn't until twenty minutes later when his boss - _mentor.. friend.. guardian.. hero.. _- is mixing the batter that he recalls another piece of the puzzle that has yet to slot into place.

"Just out of curiosity," Mike pipes up, leaning across the counter and licking a spoon of peanut butter (don't judge him. He's in serious need of some comfort food). "Where exactly did you hide it?"

"Hide what?" he questions casually.

"Don't play dumb with me. That monitor - where'd you put it?"

The twinkle in Harvey's eye is definitely not in his imagination.

"Under the bed," he finally comes clean, fighting a smile. "You know…" Reaching up and scratching his chin, the senior partner thoughtfully remarks, "I'm sort of surprised those monsters haven't already devoured it."

No matter what he says, Harvey totally deserves that punch on the arm.

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><p>It doesn't end.<p>

He tries everything and it still. Doesn't. End.

Every night before bed, Harvey kindly reminds him to go to the bathroom and enforces a new rule of no drinks after six. As well as this, Mike is banned from anything caffeine-related, which isn't as big an adjustment as he expected. The older man has gradually cut down his coffee intake almost without him noticing and made his views on Mike's redbull dependence perfectly clear.

When this fails to make any difference, the boy even goes so far as to set an alarm, but he still finds himself blushing furiously every time he wakes up.

Of the seven days that week, Mike stays dry one night. _One_.

And that was after throwing away all of his drinks that day, dumping them into a drawer at his desk or burying them under his pillow and almost getting himself hooked up to an IV line in the process (he really was not that bad. Harvey was just being…Harvey). It took a ridiculous amount of persuasion (begging) to discourage the man from taking him straight to the hospital and after having to slurp down every single juice box under the senior partner's watchful eye, from the bottom of his heart, Mike sincerely regretted his actions.

Nonplussed, Harvey encourages him to visit a doctor or specialist, but he steadfastly refuses. Chalking it up to embarrassment, his boss doesn't push the issue, but Mike can see he is growing more concerned by the minute.

The associate is scared to sleep, dreading the subsequent morning and flinching whenever he overhears the word 'accident.'

Yet it all pales in comparison to the pivotal moment when Harvey sits him down and utters what is possibly the worst phrase of all phrases in the history of phrases, "We need to talk."

Oh, hell no.

Abort, abort!

Placing his palms over his ears, Mike squeezes his eyes shut and sings, "La la la la la la-"

"Mike-"

"I can't hear you!"

"_Mike_," Harvey says sternly, gently removing his hands. "You can't avoid this forever."

"I can and I will," he petulantly retorts, diving under his covers and curling up into a ball, tucking his knees under his chin. The older man sighs.

"I'm sorry, buddy," And he does sound genuinely remorseful, "But we need to discuss this. I've looked into it-"

"Oh, God," he groans.

"-And there's really nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of people, of all ages, wet the bed for a variety of reasons that are in actuality not within their control. It could be something medical-related or you may just out grow it-"

Who precisely is Harvey addressing anyway? The child, the teen, or his grown-ass associate?

"But until then," he persists, not without sympathy. "It's probably best to have some kind of protective measure in place."

Shrinking in on himself and wincing, Mike dares to ask, "What are you saying?"

He doesn't have to perceive the senior partner's face to be aware of his grimace. "I'm talking about disposable underwear," Harvey explicates quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. Before the kid has the chance to baulk, he hurries to explain, "Just hear me out. They're efficient and hygienic, and the only person who will know will be me. It's not intended to humiliate or punish you in any way. I'm only suggesting this because it's preventing you from getting a full night's rest and we're sort of running low on options, kiddo. But it is entirely your decision. I won't force it on you. However, I do honestly believe this is the most sensible thing to do."

Voice wobbly and hoarse, Mike mumbles, "M'not a baby."

"I know you're not, bud," he rushes to assure. "Like I've said, many people have this difficulty and it's not childish whatsoever. If anything, this is actually the mature way to handle the situation because you'd be taking responsibility to manage the problem."

The hardest thing to recognize is that the man does in fact have a point.

It _is_ time to take action, and rather than sitting in the corner feeling sorry for himself, it's time for Mike to accept his newfound 'condition' and move on. And the best way to do that is just that.

He needs to try and 'manage the problem.'

And if that includes wearing pull-ups or adult diapers or whatever it need be to get through these excruciating nights, so be it.

So he agrees - _inwardly dying a little, naturally, but he needs time to come to terms with it _- and Harvey practically wilts in relief - _he probably expected to have something thrown at his face_ - and after assuring he was alright for the tenth time, Harvey finally leaves him alone - _because he is fine. He's fine. He's going to be fine again_ - leaving Mike to paw through his mass of dirty laundry for his cell.

Taking a deep breath, he browses his contacts and hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen, at the name that pops up.

No, he slowly exhales, he can do this. He needs to do this.

It's about time Mike returned Dr. Slater's stupid calls.

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><p><em>For the record, this was not a subject that I originally set out to touch on, but the idea came to me and I did some research and found that bedwetting into the teenage years or even adulthood is actually a fairly common problem. Obviously, it's different for Mike because I have to cater to both his teen and toddler selves, but I hope I covered the topic appropriately all the same.<em>

_Also, is it just me or is Harvey really getting the hang of this whole heart-to-heart thing?_

_Thanks for reading._


	7. On Your Own

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**CHAPTER SIX:**

On Your Own

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><p><strong>AN: **All of my chapters are pretty fluffy, but this one is especially so. I had a tough week and wanted to write something to cheer myself up. This is not at all what I'd originally intended. It was supposed to be super serious, but whatever; I didn't really want to go there emotionally. If a few of you guys could maybe send an extra handful of reviews my way, that'd be great too. I'd really appreciate it.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p>Wednesday dawns clear skied and unpredictable.<p>

Wearing only a baggy tee and tartan bottoms with stripes, Mike pads into the kitchen barefoot, giving his armpit a cautious sniff as he clambers onto a stool, before sleepily pillowing his head on the crook of his arm.

"Morning, puppy," Harvey greets from where he's fixing himself a bowl of that boring, all-bran cereal. It's obvious he has just returned from his daily jog, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and cheeks faintly flushed. "What would you like for breakfast? Toast sound acceptable?"

"No," Mike replies, still slumped over the counter top.

"Okay…" He racks his brain for another preference of Mike's. "What about some strawberries and waffles?"

He doesn't even pause, before rejecting, "No."

"Well, those are your options, kiddo." With an unapologetic shrug, his boss says, "I'd offer you some of mine, but I know how much you hate any cereal that isn't cheerios, so what'll it be? Toast or waffles?"

He doesn't know what's gotten into him, but he wants to push just to see what might happen, and he needs to refuse if only to show that he can. "No."

To Harvey's credit, he simply says, "Mike."

Bumping his nose against his arm and stubbornly shaking his head, the youngster stretches, "Noooooo."

"Alright, here's what's going to happen: I'm going to count to ten and you are going to choose or I'm going to choose for you and that'll be the end of it, got it?"

"But _Harrvvvyy_," Mike whines, lifting his head momentarily before flopping lifelessly down again.

"But nothing," he firmly refutes. Somewhat louder than his usual speaking voice but no less obstinate, the senior partner begins slowly, "One, two, three-"

Mike fidgets.

"-Four, five, six-"

Lips slip into a sullen pout.

"-Seven, eight, nine-"

"Okay, okay!" the boy interjects, succumbing to the pressure. "I'll have the toast." When Harvey simply raises a brow, he quickly tacks on, "Please."

"No problemo, kiddo," he cheerfully assents, ignoring Mike's resentful frown. Within minutes, a warm plate is placed in front of him along with another lousy juice box, blackcurrent in flavour, which he glowers at on principle. As if reading his mind, Harvey doesn't hesitate to intervene. "Nope," he effortlessly impedes, relaxed yet resolute. "We don't have time for any 'don't want its.' You're eating your toast, crust and all, and that's it."

As if some external force has invaded his mind, Mike can't stop himself from blurting, "No."

Harvey's nose twitches and the associate knows, right then, that he won't like what's coming next.

"Is that the only word in your vocabulary today?" he queries, not sounding the least bit amused. "I was kind enough to give you a choice, Mike. In future, I might not be so liberal. So you better believe it when I say that unless you wolf down at least _one_ slice of toast inside the next five minutes, I _will_ spoon-feed you for the rest of the week. If you want to act like a spoiled brat, then you'll be treated as one, simple as that."

"No fair!"

"On the contrary, I think you'll find that it's more than reasonable. You know you get cranky in the morning unless you've eaten and I, for one, am not in the mood to deal with any more temper tantrums."

Knuckling his eyes and not quite holding off the tears, Mike isn't even aware that he's been sucking on his thumb until he has to meekly consent around the blockage, "Fine."

"Good boy," Harvey softly praises, giving him a quick hug and kissing the top of his head. "Now, I'm going to go shower and when I get back, that plate better be clean, mister."

The kid nods, picking up the lukewarm bread and sluggishly pushing it against his lips as if to say, _See? I'm being totally agreeable. Look how well-behaved and pleasant I am._

"And when we get to the firm, you can take a little nap in my office if you're still tired, okay?" he proposes with a knowing look. Before Mike has the chance to object to that statement, the lawyer adds, "Plus, I think Jellybean might be feeling a little sad today." Mike doesn't know why, but that makes _him_ sad, brows furrowing in sympathy. "Maybe you should stay with him for a while. Just in case he gets a bit lonely."

"Okay," he agrees whole-heartedly, willing to do anything that might cheer up his furry pal and secretly promising to give him an extra-special cuddle later.

And if Mike just so happens to drop off during the middle of a very, very long hug after telling about ten different jokes that he's certain would brighten anyone's day, ("Hey, Jellybean. What do you call an alligator in a vest?" Blue eyes gazed back at him vacantly. "An In_vest_igator!") then what's the harm anyway?

He's just being a good friend.

And if, unbeknownst to him, Harvey and Donna are left struggling to contain their mushy _awwwws,_ and the senior partner smiles upon seeing the boy's eyes have drifted closed before hunting down his favourite blankie to tuck him in, then what's the odds anyhow?

It's not like Harvey anticipated this moment.

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><p>Much more refreshed and better rested, it's an extremely guilty, shame-faced Mike who awakens on the couch.<p>

He should probably apologise.

Yet, just as Mike is about to sit up and stretch, he overhears a hushed, "No, I can't. My schedule is chock-full and I-"

Cracking open a curious lid, he finds that Harvey is on the phone and appears to be arguing, jaw cast in rigid infuriation with grave grooves of stress sculpted across his frown line.

"It's not about that," he murmurs quietly, "Jessica, I really can't-" Another long pause has him massaging his brow and sighing. "I don't even want to know how you found out about the kid staying with me, but it's actually none of your business. Mike…he's-" Hearing his name, Mike stills, assuming a peaceful expression and feeling eyes on him. "…He needs me right now. I can't go flying across the country. Not after-" the lawyer breaks off. "Look, LA is great and all - you know I'd love to join you and take down this bastard. But it's just not viable right now." His voice is even lower to utter, "No, absolutely not. I am not asking Donna to look after him." Almost whispering, "She killed her last goldfish."

"I trust her!" he exclaims after a moment. "I just…No, it doesn't matter - fine, she sprinkled some Oreo crumbs in the water. Poor little suckers didn't know what hit them."

All of a sudden, an indignant voice comes over the intercom, "Are you telling that fish-murderer story again?"

"No!"

"Good. Because we were both pretty drunk that night and you have no way to prove it was me."

"It was totally you," he grumbles, before finally responding to Jessica, "Moral of story is, I am unable to go. Go find some other lackey to do your bidding. I'm sure Louis will be delighted."

But since when has Jessica ever fought fair?

"Flattered as I may be," Harvey chuckles, "I'm still not sold. You're going to have to do better than point out things I already kno- Wait, wait, wait, seriously? You're kidding. You'll give me _how_ much for two days?! That's a pretty hefty bonus from someone who claims not to be desperate. You know what? You give me a weeks vacation afterwards _and_ repeat everything you've just said to me in front all of the partners, including Louis, and I'll even do it for free."

From the sounds of it, Jessica isn't exactly over the moon, but hey - a deal's a deal.

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><p>Fast forward to an hour later and no countdown technique is going to nip Mike's newfound defiance in the bud.<p>

"No," he avows, putting his foot down (and maybe, just maybe, unintentionally punctuating Harvey's point and stamping it too) and nowhere near ready to give in.

"Now, Mike-"

"No, we are not discussing this. I've had just about enough of you two ordering me around. Do not make me repeat myself."

"Mike," Harvey's voice is strained and nothing approximating the equanimity of before, "Remember our conversation earlier? This is not a time when I can give you a choice. There's no choosing now. I know that you don't like this, and I'm sorry, but this is how it's going to be."

"I said no!" the associate snaps in frustration. "Get this into your head: I will not bow down to your stupid schemes just to satisfy _your_ peace of mind. It's not happening."

"Mike, poppet," Donna says her piece, "Harvey is just trying to do what's best for you. For what it's worth, I think we would have a fan-fricking-tastic few days together."

"While I appreciate the concern, Donna," he says diplomatically, "I'm old enough to stay on my own. I have an apartment for a reason." Even if he hasn't stayed there in, oh, three weeks or so. "I'll be fine. Stop encouraging him."

Mike avoids using the words 'man,' 'grown-up,' and, 'adult,' to propel his argument because lately he's noticed they seem to plot against him, highlighting all the ways in which he's not the least bit reliable in his present state. And it always ends the same way: with Harvey even more converted to a lifetime of mollycoddling than ever, and Mike feeling powerless to the solace of his trusty thumb.

"I don't need any damn encouragement, alright?" Harvey irritably tells him. "I'm in charge here, and I have grounds to believe that you most certainly will not be 'fine.'"

"Why do _you_ get to dictate how or where I spend my time?" Mike puts forward, doing his best to withstand that side of him that wants to kick and shout and narrate all the reasons why _no_-_one_ can tell him what to do.

"Because I'm Harvey, that's why," his boss concludes as if it's that simple.

Okay, time to switch it up.

"Please, Harvey?" Mike sniffs, widening his eyes minutely, tilting his head ever-so-slightly and rumpling tragic brows. Blinking past the tears catching on his eyelashes, he adds a layer of the sweetest sincerity to his tone. "I promise I'll be really, really good, and do everything I'm supposed to, and call Donna if anything happens." And just to seal the deal, he does the one thing guaranteed to thaw any last reservation - Mike pokes the edge of his mouth with the tip of his thumb, neither sucking or chewing, and adds, "Pretty please?"

So he's a manipulative little shit - sue him.

He can see Harvey's willpower draining away at the adorableness. It shouldn't work, - he's a long way from the picture of independence - but it does. If nothing else, Harvey is a sucker for a charming, distressed Mike.

With a look in his eyes like he knows he's going to regret this later, the senior partner gives in, "Fine. But if anything - and I mean, _anything_ - goes wrong, then you will be shipped off to Donna's, no hesitation. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, Mike. Do not let me down."

But, of course, it wasn't that easy. Harvey spends the rest of the day trying to change his mind, because he can't very well go back on his word, and then panicking as the time draws nearer and he realises that Mike is genuinely going to be left on his own.

_Two days_, Mike keeps reminding him.

_And another morning_, Harvey predictably parrots back.

His flight (first-class, naturally) is scheduled to leave that Thursday morning, but Mike soon begins to doubt that he'll ever make it on board. A twist that nobody saw coming, Harvey is unbelievably _clingy_ that evening. Beyond ensuring that the refrigerator is well stocked, (there was no hope of the associate returning to his own 'landmine of fleas and disease') and drafting up list after list on what to do in case of an emergency, the lawyer's focal goal is not letting Mike out of his sight.

With his approaching departure skulking around the corner, Harvey consoles himself by carding fingers through his puppy's hair while he reads up on the case - and Mike lets him. Even if it does become a tad distracting when he's trying to build the Millennium Falcon out of Lego _without_ instructions, thank you very much. Instructions are for wusses.

Mike, on the other hand, isn't feeling at all apprehensive about his father-figure leaving. On the contrary, he's looking forward to the prospect of revelling in his freedom.

It isn't until bedtime that the first trace of fear sprouts. However, he can't really express these fears without aggravating all of Harvey's, so he keeps them to himself and inadvertently gets comforted anyway, when the man continues to stay with him, crooning song after song, and accidentally ends up falling asleep in Mike's bed.

Thursday dawns with the peachy afterglow of sunrise.

Mike unenthusiastically swallows his toast without complaint, while Harvey packs the last of his things.

"Don't worry, kiddo. I'll call as soon as I can," Harvey pledges, while the kid clutches at him for dear life. "Be good for me, okay? I'll be back before you know it."

"Miss you," he mumbles into the man's chest, one hand mangling his crisp, scrupulous suit. It is perhaps the first time that Mike truly pays attention to the drastic difference in height between them. He really is but a boy.

"I'll miss you too, puppy," Harvey murmurs, planting a kiss on his head and rubbing his back. Mike reluctantly lets go, standing back as his protector slides into the cab.

But it'll be good for them, he thinks. The separation.

_Two days_, Mike reminds himself.

And another morning.

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><p>For his first step towards doing-whatever-the-hell-he-wants, Mike casually forgets to call Ray.<p>

He waits long enough for Donna to have gotten to work so that he won't run into her outside the building, but doesn't leave it too late that the redhead will grow concerned and get in contact with Ray herself. He hops onto his bike and feels the last of his guilt shrink away. Man, he missed this.

Besides, it's not like he's doing anything that anyone other than Harvey would categorize as dangerous. He's being healthy and active, getting his blood pumping and all that. And really, Mike is not abusing Harvey's trust. He hasn't gone mad with power; he's just riding his bicycle.

Work itself is far from enjoyable. But that's precisely what he'd aimed for.

As soon as Mike arrives, he advances towards Louis' office and requests to chip in on the Peterson & Ridge merger. It's not the most intellectually-challenging of cases, but there's a mountain of paperwork that the junior partner is all too happy to impart on eager, naïve associates.

Like him.

And Harold - who he feels a little bad about roping in, but at the end of the day, he is far too docile to even suggest that Mike takes his lunch instead of burrowing under a cave of briefs in the file room, and so unobservant that it's highly unlikely he'd ever notice Mike then falling asleep after holding out for as long as he can.

Mike is cunning enough that he texts Donna to say everything's okay, while supplying the vaguest of details to hopefully knock her off his tail.

It's late by the time he finishes up - he may have yelled at Harold a little and decided never to work in close proximity on an empty stomach with anyone ever again - and Mike once again opts not to phone his boss' driver, preferring to make his own way home in the dark.

He's shivering violently as he turns his key in the lock with frozen, trembling hands, and it takes a moment for Mike to realise that the door was never locked.

Guardedly pushing it open, he breathes a sigh of relief at the welcoming brightness. What kind of dim-witted burglar leaves the hall lights on?

Tiptoeing towards the kitchen area all the same, he halts at the sight of a figure helping themselves to a glass of the finest wine on offer.

"Welcome home, Mike," Donna drawls, swirling the sparkling, crimson liquid and taking a leisured sip. "You took your time."

His messenger bag falls to the floor. "Goddammit."

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><p>"Donna, what are you doing here?" Mike questions, shock quickly wearing off and annoyance rising in its place.<p>

"You're moping," she states with a shrug, taking a seat by the breakfast bar. "I figured I'd better do something before you started writing shitty poems and sobbing into a tub of strawberry ice-cream."

"I am _not_ moping," he objects. He's just… going about his day a little differently, is all.

"You didn't step one foot into Harvey's office all day and have been going nuts trying to keep yourself busy," the redhead recounts dryly. "Pretty sure that counts as moping."

Unable to defend himself without digging a deeper hole, Mike instead probes, "Did he call you? Is that why you're here?"

"No, I volunteered to save you from becoming a walking cliché," Donna tells him, elegantly crossing her legs in total indifference.

"But he _did_ call."

"Duh." She rolls her eyes. "Classic worrywart, remember?" Donna chuckles, then abruptly sobers. "Though that's beside the point. Now that Harvey is out of the picture, we can finally have some fun around here."

Mike is almost afraid to ask. "…Fun?"

The beam which comes over her face is so scarily bright, it verges on foreboding. "Yes, _fun_. Ever heard of it?" Without giving him the chance to protest, Donna commands, "So go change into some old clothes, and shorts if you've got them, and brace yourself for a shitload of awesome."

When Mike only continues to stand there in hopeless incomprehension, she snipes, "Well? What are you waiting for? Chop, chop. I've got stuff to prepare."

He does as instructed, emerging almost ten minutes later in the rattiest clothes he owns.

When he enters the living area, Mike is stunned to learn that the couch has been pushed back against the far wall and an _enormous_ slice of paper has been rolled out in its place, roughly eight feet in length, and the corners are weighed down by generous trays of thick, glossy paint - modest yellow and luscious blue opposite a tart red and blushing pink.

Not only this, but the redhead herself is now dressed in a baby pink vest-top and black yoga pants, with her hair scraped back in a lopsided bun and looking far too smug for his liking.

"Uh, Donna…" He scratches his chest. "What's all this?"

"This, my sweet, ignorant friend, is everything we need for some good, old-fashioned freeze dancing."

"Some-some _what_?"

"No need to look so worried, sunshine," she declares, laughing openly at his wary expression. "It's easy peasy. Here, just take off your socks and follow my lead, 'kay?"

It takes a bit more coaxing for Mike to get in the swing of things, but Donna's zest is irresistible.

Which was why, an hour later after hastily retrieving and accepting a call from his buzzing cell, Mike answers with a breathless, almost giddy, "He-hello..?" while fighting to maintain his balance, feet skidding on the green-speckled wooden floor and leaving a trail of bright, sticky prints.

"Mike?" Harvey replies in confusion. "Why do you sound so out of breath? Is that _music _playing in the background?"

"Bit busy, Harvey," the kid tells him, mind elsewhere. His heart is beating frantically while his legs are moving seemingly of their own accord to the infectious rhythm - riffs of frenzied, electric guitars and chaotic drums clashing with the offbeat keyboard and passionate yet silky vocals. "Donna challenged me to a dance off and I'm currently losing by- what was it?" he directs over his shoulder. "Ten points?"

"Fifteen if you're not careful," she supplies, wisps of auburn sticking to her forehead creased in concentration. "I am gonna. Bring. You. _Down_."

"You wish," Mike retorts, before returning his focus to the conversation at hand, "Sorry, Harv. Can you call back in, like, twenty minutes?"

"Wait-wait-wait," he butts in, "What's this about a dance off?"

"I'm teaching him how to play freeze dance," Donna shouts over, bouncing to the climatic build of the drums. "Try to keep up."

"What the hell is that?" the man asks, perplexed.

"It's a game where you pour some paint into a container and then jump into it," he explains. "Once your feet are covered, you start the music and dance around on a really large sheet of paper. The song stops at random and you have to freeze and hold your pose. First one to move loses. Winner scores five points."

"Is that.. Is that safe?" he wonders suspiciously. "Sounds kinda messy."

"It's kickass," Mike enthuses just as the music is brought to a standstill and he halts, wobbling a little as his toes strain under the weight of his awkward position. "Check it, I only fell over _twice_."

"Wait, what-"

Sneaking a peek at his companion, he sees that Donna is struggling to uphold her own difficult pose as she tips to one side, paint slick and slurring under her heel. "Plus, by the end, you've got a pretty cool picture. We've made three already."

"Mike, I don't want you getting hu-"

"We'll scrub the place down afterwards and everything, no worries."

"Mike, you'd better not do anything-"

A sharp gasp and suddenly Donna is pitching forward. Her hip knocks into Mike's side, disturbing his own brittle steadiness. Soon, he is crumpling unceremoniously on top of her in a heap of tangled limbs and startled laughs, flecks of paint spraying their faces as a lock of hair dips into the colourful mush.

"What was that?" Harvey cries in panic.

Before he can assure his boss that everything is fine, - he's doubtlessly bruised, but it doesn't seem like anything's broken - the redhead snatches the phone out of his grasp and replies smoothly into the receiver, "Sorry, no killjoys allowed. Feel free to call back whenever I actually give a crap. I'll pencil you in for Tuesday."

"Donna, I swear to God-"

"Bye, Harvey," Donna sings, not hesitating to hang up.

Mike stares at her.

Gazing back at him unrepentantly, she says, "What?"

Huffing a laugh, he shakes his head and remarks instead, "For the record, I so won that round."

"Oh, hell no, bitch," she counters. "You could have fractured my spine with that twisty manoeuvre there; I am entitled to at least ten pity points."

Sometimes with Donna, it really is easier to simply give her what she wants.

The clean up takes about twice as long as the game itself and Mike has a sneaking suspicion that he will be picking blobs of paint out of his toenails for weeks, but with what feels like a permanent grin having long ago conquered his face, it's hard to sustain any exasperation.

Ultimately, the boy can't deny that it was totally and unequivocally freakin' worth it.

Even if Harvey will never entrust Donna to oversee Mike's welfare ever again. And he had to endure a pretty impressive, anxiety-driven rant which clocked in at around twenty minutes when he finally worked up the courage to ring back the catastrophic-thinker who probably shouldn't be left alone to his thoughts.

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><p>Harold doesn't want to work with him on Friday.<p>

Not that Mike blames him.

He buys a cookie to say sorry and leaves it on the much-too-gentle associate's desk along with a written apology, before going to hide from Louis in the library and drawing a picture for - and possibly of - Harvey (he was bored).

The man eventually tracks him down and he ends up working in Louis' office for the rest of the day where he can keep tabs on him - damn Harvey called him too.

Mike doesn't think he'll ever recover from the horror of being bulldozed into taking a nap by the same man who was gunning for the obliteration of his career just a month ago and who now forced him to eat turkey bites, celery and carrot sticks for lunch after squabbling for over an hour about who was superior: Batman or Superman (Batman, obviously. Strategic mastermind, anyone?).

And as it turns out, there's not a whole bunch of people that Harvey _didn't_ call, because when he leaves the firm at six o'clock on the dot at the junior partner's insistence, Ray is leaning against his limo sporting a disapproving frown courtesy of one even more disapproving senior partner.

Mike hangs his head and gets in.

He only has enough to time to change out of his suit into something more comfortable before knocking sounds at the door. Grumbling on his way to answer it, the associate readies himself for an argument with a certain legal secretary, but to his surprise, it's not Donna standing at his front door with a mouth-watering bag of takeout.

"Hey, loser."

"Aw, _man_," Mike groans, throwing back his head and standing aside to let her in. "He recruit you too?"

"What?" Rachel asks, startled.

"Harvey," he says roughly. "He's been enlisting the help of everyone I know to make my life a living hell from the other side of the frickin' country. He made me stay with _Louis_ today."

"Yeah…about that..." She bites her lip, looking up at him guiltily. "He, ah, got in touch with me, too."

Of course he did.

"Well, I have to give him props for his thoroughness," Mike grumbles, collecting two plates and a couple forks from the kitchen. "He's like some kind of evil mastermind."

Rachel laughs. "You didn't honestly expect anything less?"

"I don't know," he answers candidly, before glancing over at her in confusion, "Why? Did you?"

"Can't say I did," the paralegal admits easily. "My Dad used to be the exact same and don't even get me started on my Mom. Even now, it's like I have to remind her the umbilical cord was cut decades ago."

Mike swallows at the insinuation that their situations are in any way similar.

Right. New caregiver, chemical reaction, whole distortion of reality thing.

Not wanting to get into it, he says teasingly, "Harvey the only reason you came over?"

"'Course not," Rachel grins. "We haven't hung out in ages and I thought you might want to have another Vikings marathon. Unless you're not up for it. It might be a little graphic."

"Seriously? Blood, guts and gore - hell, yeah, I'm all over that shit!"

"You sure?" she frowns. "People are, like, slaughtered every five minutes."

"Rach, come on." _Not this again_, he inwardly sighs. "You can't dangle something like that in front of me just to yank it away. Get over yourself, we're watching it. I've been dying to watch season two."

She doesn't look convinced. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure," he assures with soft earnestness, positive that he has this in the bag

"Alright then," Rachel allows. "But don't come crying to me if you have any nightmares." And for the first time, it crosses Mike's mind that she's acting a lot more like a babysitter than his friend - much less his equal. It upsets him a great deal more than it should.

Then when she murmurs, "It'll be our little secret," the penny drops and it becomes apparent that - just like everything else - Rachel may not purposely treat him this way, but for all intents and purposes, their friendship may as well be in shambles because all Mike's ever going to be to her is a dorky little kid that needs protection from the harsh realities of the world and R-rated movies.

He enjoys his time with the paralegal even so, but it's not the same.

Whenever they make a fresh batch of homemade popcorn beforehand like always, Rachel warns him to be careful not to burn his fingers and she constantly scrutinizes his expression for any signs of emotional disturbance during the show, which sadly does end up being more than he can handle.

After swapping for another Disney film, - Brother Bear or something - Mike's spirits are a little low and he finds himself wishing that Harvey were here to comment on the mediocre animation and far-fetched plot as if in agony, so that even though the kid side took pleasure in the childish show, he could laugh about the occasional flaw and that would be fine, too.

He'd feel more…balanced or something.

At the finish up, Mike is on the verge of tears, (not because the ending broke his heart or anything, as if) and involuntarily sniffles, "Want H'vey."

Though alarmed, Rachel is obviously cooing uncontrollably on the inside and she stokes his hair for a moment before pronouncing, "I think I might have just the thing."

She stands and soon disappears from his line of sight and just when he fears she's going to present him with Jellybean, or a sippy cup, or something equally embarrassing, Rachel returns with his neglected laptop.

"Here you go, pumpkin," she smiles, handing it over.

Brows puckering, Mike begins to say, "What-" but is cut off by a voice emanating from the contraption on his lap.

"Hiya, puppy. A little birdie told me you were feeling a little down."

"Harvey!" Mike beams, tilting the laptop so that the familiar face appears on the screen. In the meantime, Rachel leaves to give the two some privacy, quickly giving Mike a good-bye hug and nodding to Harvey.

"Yup," The other man's smile is warm and gentle. "What's up, puppy? Why so sad?"

Eyes downcast, Mike shrugs, toying with his fingers. "Just been…been missing you," he admits shyly with a faint blush.

"Well, then isn't it a good thing you'll see me tomorrow, right, bud?"

"But tomorrow's _forever_ away," the boy whines, breath hitching.

"I know, puppy," Harvey appeases. "But just think of all the time we'll have to do something together when I get back."

The conciliation alone isn't enough.

In the end, Harvey has no other alternative than to wait until Mike is 'as snug as a bug' (Harvey's words, not his) in bed, clutching his security blanket and stuffed animal close, before singing his usual lullaby over an honest-to-God Skype call so that the kid can finally sleep.

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><p>The appointment he arranged with Dr. Slater for Monday morning can't come quick enough.<p>

He doesn't bother with any preamble, simply choosing to barge in, thoughts of this future and his current routine - which evidently has a sell-by date - ricocheting in his mind, and demands, "How am I ever supposed to have a normal life?" It's the one question he'd give anything to have an answer to. "It feels like I have no control over anything and there's only so long that I can keep all of…_this_ up."

He doesn't have to elaborate on the 'this.'

Dr. Slater stands and gives the subject his full, undivided attention, pausing for several moments to carefully consider his response.

"Foremost," he begins, clearing his throat and licking his chapped lips, "My advice to you would be to embrace it." And wasn't that a stinker. "I won't lie. The other's still struggle and this is all very new. But the absolute last thing you should do is act like nothing has changed."

So… the exact opposite of everything he has been doing?

"Major adjustments are only logical," Dr. Slater explains. "You are not an adult, in body or mind. Hard as it to accept, you're less than eighty-percent teenager. Mike, you must cater to your body's needs."

"What? Like, you mean I should walk around casually sucking on a pacifier?" he scoffs with a healthy dose of sarcasm. But his hands are ticking and he's feeling extremely out of his comfort zone.

"Let me ask you this," the man challenges. "If you were diabetic, would you feel uncomfortable taking insulin?"

Mike rolls his eyes, having seen this very practical outlook coming a mile off. "Of course not."

"Then why should you think of this as being any different? There's no reason to be ashamed, Mr. Ross. If you need security items, use them - discreetly, if you must. Say for example, you find yourself craving a hug or getting carried away with make-believe, go with it. Repressing these desires will not help. We've tested that avenue and it has failed spectacularly. Best case scenario, you have a complete and utter meltdown come naptime. Worst case, you risk disturbing the somewhat delicate balance between the two, resulting in even more indulgence of puerility. You aren't normal, Mike," he says matter-of-factly, causing the associate to flinch. "You have to be realistic, which, yes, requires making a few life changes that are not altogether ideal."

"_Not ideal_?" Mike repeats incredulously. "Doc, you're talking about me giving up my independence, my job, my _everything_."

"Maybe, maybe not," he shrugs. "With the appropriate measures in place, I do believe that you can manage this. Go back to school, take up something new for a few years. Then you can qualify as a lawyer or whatever it is that you wish and-"

"Start all over again?" he interrupts cynically, a bitter taste on his tongue.

Dr. Slater pauses. "Would that really be so bad?"

_Yes_, a voice deep down screams. _It would be the end of everything_.

But then he remembers just how goddamn _happy_ he'd been to see Harvey on his return. The beam that shone much brighter than ever before. How the man had wrapped his arms around him and pulled Mike tight against his torso, running his fingers through his blonde hair and grinning.

How easy it had been for both of them to say, 'I missed you. Let's not do that again.'

"I never asked for a do-over."

"But still… you got one," he bluntly points out. "The only question is, what will you do with it?"

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><p><em>Thanks for reading.<em>

_It isn't as long as I would have hoped for, (sort of like short snippets) but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless._

_Also, for the Anon who asked if Mike is a kid - no, he's technically a teenager with child-like tendencies. Sorry, if I've made this unclear._


	8. Change Your Life

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**CHAPTER SEVEN:**

Change Your Life

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><p><strong>AN:** Okay, guys - listen up. So I have about three more chapters planned, not including the epilogue or whatever, and after that, I'm afraid that could be it - I might wrap this up. Really, though, it's down to whether or not there's a demand for more. I love writing Suits fics (and absolutely adore Can't Go Back) and I will quite happily write more. But I also have school to consider, so it really does depend on whether there's any real need for it. I hope this doesn't sound presumptuous or anything, I don't know. I'm genuinely wondering if this is something worth investing a lot more time and energy in.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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><p><em>1. Quit avoiding the problem. A.K.A stop being such a stupid-head (crossed out) wimp.<em>

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><p>The mirror is not his friend.<p>

For the past month, Mike has assiduously shirked away from any external markers of his journey backwards in time, fleeting glances here and there in the mirror felt like following a map that only leads to a dead end. Or a compass that points towards North and nowhere else.

Yet now, he stands in the bright-lit bathroom studying his face and wonders what it is that Harvey sees - or more accurately, how he _can't_ see.

A boy stares back at him, no older than fourteen.

He seems unbelievably small, but is probably of an average height for his age, and his scrawny body only makes him look so much younger, all awkward elbows and lanky limbs. His hair is very, very blonde, shades lighter than he remembers, while his face is horribly cute. In spite of the distinct jaw-line and angular chin, there is enough leftover babyfat that he's the kind of boy that girls will crush hard on, but ultimately describe first and foremost as _'dreamy,' _or, gag, _'adorable.' _Miles away - years away - from ruggedly handsome or even hot.

But it's the eyes. The eyes are what hold his attention.

Strikingly blue, they are impossibly bright, and innocent in a way Mike's never been.

Uncomfortably aware of the arm hanging limply by his side, fingers gripping a soft, cuddly wolf like it's a life-line, he doesn't know whether to consider that a good thing.

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><p><em>2. Be more positive.<em>

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><p>It began with the best of intentions, as these things always do.<p>

_What will you do with it?_

What does Mike want to _do_?

It's a tricky question, one he thinks long and hard on. After his confrontation with his reflection, Mike crafts a list - a plan of action, a means to an end.

He is practical, factual, this-is-what-it-is-esque. But Mike knows that unless he changes his prevalent, pessimistic outlook, he's never going to get anywhere. So he starts reading self-help books for as long as he can stomach it, and attaches merry, luminous sticky notes covered with inspirational quotes to his dresser.

_Everyday is a second chance._

_You'll never leave where you are until you decide where you'd rather be._

_Think positive and positive things will happen._

They all sound so cheesy and vapid, and it feels as if Mike's starring in his own, low-budget sit-com, plastering on a blinding smile and waiting for the laugh track.

Look on the bright side - that's elementary school stuff.

He sees his shrunken body and smooth, soft skin, and it's hard to quit focusing on all that he's lost and acknowledge everything he has gained.

Then comes his parent's anniversary.

Every other year, Mike would set aside three or four hours to visit his Grammy and play checkers while engaging in the obligatory, annual reminiscing of the good-old days, and then he'd go retreat to his apartment to get high in peace, vodka bottle in hand and eyes rolling in the back of his head, almost killing himself trying to escape the pain.

But for the first time in fourteen years, his Gram isn't well enough to participate in his self-destructive ritual, bed-ridden with a chest infection, and he's staying at Harvey's place rather than his own with no alcohol in sight (Harvey's stash of scotch having long ago been hidden).

Mike slogs through work in a haze, numb and stranded in his own personal hell. He slowly punches holes in a plain piece of paper for over half an hour, just watching the remains flutter away and listening to the deadening crunch. He grinds tacks into his desk, yellow, green and blue, and coldly staples sheets together. When his thumb gets trapped between the silver teeth, trickles of intelligent red, he can't tell if it was an accident.

His heart feels heavy. He feels so very old.

He doesn't realise he was due at the senior partner's office over forty-minutes ago, until a hand reaches out and snags his own, stilling his movements, and Harvey's blurred face appears in his vision.

Crouched in front of him with the distinctive slope of worry in his dark eyes, Harvey wraps a handkerchief around the open wound, which Mike unfeelingly observes has grown, and searches for words when none are in the offing. His steady gaze promises, _It's okay. _His tight mouth asks, _why?_

What had been two, small punctures are now long, raw cuts. There's dried blood in his fingernails and crimson smeared across his palm.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened.

Blood gurgles from the deepened slashes and Mike is suddenly stiffly ashamed of his behaviour.

He didn't mean to, he never means to.

Overwhelmed with a rush of _could's_ and _maybes _and _if only I'd done's_, he chokes, "I miss them, H'vey. I miss them and they're gone and it's today." He roughly swipes under his nose. "It's _today_ and I just miss them so much."

That's all it takes. That's all it takes for the Harvey to see the cuts for what they really are - a cry for help, an overflow, a punishment to fit the crime.

"Aw, Mike," Harvey whispers. "Come here."

He draws Mike into a hug right there in front of everyone, and it's only then that the associate becomes conscious of the fact that he's sobbing, shoulders shaking as he buries his face in Harvey's chest, while the other man pats his back and makes vague noises of comfort.

"Shh…it's okay, it's okay."

It's the farthest thing from okay.

Eventually, his boss calms him to the point where he can peel the kid away from him long enough to usher him towards his office, but once there, there's no hope of dislodging Mike from his side. He rests his head on the lawyer's shoulder and sucks on his other thumb, sniffing and whining every so often. Mumbling inarticulately, Mike plays with Jellybean's fur, who was handed to him around the same time Harvey bundled him up in his blankie that he'd been crying out for.

He's neither teen nor toddler.

He's not even really _Mike_ until about three hours later. Harvey's clutch on the book he's been reading has gone slack and his eyes have fallen shut, head dipping towards his chest.

It is then that Mike, half-dozing himself, finds the courage to murmur, "She was a painter. My mum. Not a very good one, maybe, but she didn't care. I remember how I'd come home and every day almost without fail, she'd have paint staining all of her clothing. When I asked her why she didn't wear an apron like we had to in school, she'd laugh and tell me getting so messy was her favourite part." He yawns, snuggling closer to Harvey. "I remember one time she painted the three of us together. It's the only picture we had where we were all smiling and it wasn't even a real one."

His voice fades, thinking, and moments later, he's dead to the world.

After barely making it through the rest of the day, all the while clinging to Harvey, Mike wants nothing more than to put the incident behind him. And it isn't until a week later that he's forced to think about it again.

Flinging open his bedroom door and chucking his messenger bag on the bed, Mike is yanking off his tie when he freezes in place.

There, quietly hung on the wall, is a painting. _The_ painting.

Soft smiles and crinkled eyes.

Mike can hardly believe it. Someway, somehow, Harvey tracked down one of his fondest memories and brought it to life. He listened when Mike was scared of talking, felt the weight of all of his word's importance.

All of a sudden, Mike remembers all the times Harvey has played with him, encouraged him to use the race-car tracks Donna bought him and didn't laugh when Mike had a little too much fun than is probably normal. He remembers how Harvey always makes his waffles just the way he likes them and never complains when Mike begs to watch the Lego movie for the thousandth time.

All of the smiles and hugs and hair ruffles - they all come flooding back.

He doesn't know how he ever took Harvey for granted, but he vows not to do it again. Suddenly, it's not so hard to feel fortunate.

It still doesn't feel quite like a blessing, but he knows it's not a curse.

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><p><em>3. Update wardrobe. (Translation: buy clothes that actually fit.)<em>

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><p>Every time Mike sneaks out, it's for a perfectly good reason.<p>

The first was an essential trip to see Dr. Slater, timed expertly during one of Harvey's meetings. The next equally fundamental.

He's been having an off morning. Not only have he and Harvey slept in, but his pants keep falling down and he has to create a new loop in his belt to hold them up, if only just. The hem has to be rolled up at the bottom as do the sleeves of his jacket. He looks ridiculous.

Like a child playing dress-up.

Mike's frustration only increases ten-fold when he struggles to knot his tie. Most days he can manage with only a little difficulty, but for now it looks like he'll have to bring in reinforcements.

"Harvey, my tie's being a dumb-ass," he exclaims upon bursting into his boss' bedroom.

Buttoning up his own vest, the lawyer sighs, "Let's have a look."

Squirming while Harvey deals with his twisty disaster, Mike doesn't notice at first the way the older man's head tilts, speculating, seizing him up.

Then their eyes meet and for a moment the associate thinks there might be a question hidden in their depths.

For a moment it looks like maybe Harvey's wondering why the kid is so much shorter than him, when did his clothes get so big, where his masculine frame went.

Mike holds his breath. He waits for it.

But then that moment is gone.

Something holds his tongue. And instead, Harvey shakes himself and says, "Good try, buddy. Don't worry, you'll get it next time." Then he playfully tousles his hair and pecks his forehead, before walking over to slip on his watch and jacket.

But Mike's had enough and, later that very day, he swoops in during her lunch break and hacks Donna's computer. With a single glance, he memorizes Harvey's upcoming schedule and cunningly devices his next breakout.

When Harvey leaves for court two days after, Mike casually strolls out of the building and into the mall about fifteen blocks down the street. He estimates that he has approximately two hours, which is not enough to get everything he needs, but it's a start. He purchases three suits from their formal wear, nothing too shabby, and then grudgingly heads to the adolescent section to scope for socks, converse, shirts, tees, hoodies, underwear, jeans… the list goes on and on. Afterwards, he catches a cab to the condo and unloads the goods in his room, making it back just in time to see Harvey waiting for the elevator.

He has to lie and say he'd just grabbed a bagel from the stand, which then results in a five minute baby-lecture on healthy eating habits, but hey, it'll be nice to have clothes that don't feel like they're trying to eat him.

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><p><em>4. Clear out apartment.<em>

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><p>Debatably one of the most crucial things on his agenda is Mike's wish to tie up some loose ends.<p>

One of which being his apartment.

Whatever the future holds, that desolate dump is not going to feature in it. Of this, he's positive.

He gathers a hoard of cardboard boxes, black bags, yellow gloves, and cleaning detergents. In one commendable exertion, he dedicates an entire day just to his bathroom, scrubbing his shower, toilet and sink, taking care just to wipe the faucets - he even uses an old toothbrush to remove the grime in the trickiest of places.

Mike dusts the medicine cupboard and cleans the mirror, being incredibly thorough.

It's tough, especially once he has to start deciding what and what not to throw out, but he's sure it will be worth it.

It's therapeutic, almost.

Like with every stroke and swab and scrub, he's purging himself of the man he used to be.

Stripping away the dirt of his past and polishing the potential to be something more.

Something greater than ever before.

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><p><em>5. Give in, not up.<em>

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><p>His work rate does improve, but Mike finds he concentrates best with his fingers in his mouth.<p>

His emotions aren't entirely out of control, but only because Mike lets them do whatever they please.

He's not perfect, but Mike's removed the rose-tinted glasses and is beginning to accept that he never really was and thus, never will be.

Mike regularly checks in with Dr. Slater, who keeps record of his 'progress' (he's not a damn science project, _he's not_) and advices him on many different things. It does help, to an extent. So, Mike's not surprised that on one particular day, the man calls on his way out the door, "Oh, and Mike? One more thing…"

Although not overly interested, he's willing to hear him out.

"What's up, Doc?" Mike grins, his much-loved phrase.

"Some of the…the others-" he doesn't have to clarify who, "-meet up once a month," he nervously divulges, scratching his neck. "They have a meeting this Friday. You should go."

"To… what? Meet people my own age?" he scornfully questions. "Uh, I think I'll pass."

"It would be good for you," Slater insists. "Just promise me you'll consider it, okay?"

"Sure," he says easily, "Whatever."

But he has no intentions of actually following through, until a few days later when Mike automatically reaches for his razor only to remember that he doesn't need one for another two or three years - he doesn't even patchy facial hair to look forward to anytime soon.

So he goes. To support group. He needs to know he's not the only one.

But when the time comes and he's stood surveying a room of teenagers, - pre-teens, even - cheerfully playing scrabble, Mike is quickly bombarded by second thoughts.

"What a bunch of losers," he mutters, turning to go.

"I know, right?" a voice chimes from beside him, making Mike jump back in alarm. "I mean, Scrabble? Really? Least they could do is whip out some good-old Operation. Or Cluedo..." he reconsiders, "I'd make a great murderer."

"Sorry, dude," he apologises on instinct, trying to catch his breath. "Didn't see you there."

"No problem," the boy grins, "You're Mike Ross, right? I'm Pierce. Slater said you might show."

Mike rolls his eyes. "He also said it wouldn't suck."

"You don't know the half of it, man," Pierce laughs. "These guys are hardcore."

"Hard-core milk and cookie consumers?"

"Something like that," he answers. "Though, to be fair, you kinda caught 'em on a bad day. They're not always this…" he searches for the least offensive word, "..tame."

"But still bad, right?" Mike guesses.

Pierce smirks, "We're all a little bad, I think."

Mike doesn't know what it is, but there's something about this guy that makes it hard not to like him.

"So why'd you come?"

He shrugs, "Mom makes me. Something about 'fitting in' and 'making friends.' Personally, I think it's bullshit."

That's…interesting. Mike quirks a probing brow and asks without thinking, "Mom?"

"Eh, sister/mom - what's the difference?" Pierce comments, seeming amused by the line of questioning. "No-one here really cares about that kinda stuff anymore. You got girlfriends turned mother-hens and brothers that are now uncles. Then there's just your regular old mother to, well, mother, dad-to-dad - that kinda thing. Family dynamics shift," he shrugs, "Not much you can do. Some people have one parent, some have two. We're all used to it by now."

Impressed despite himself, Mike admires his blasé, what-can-you-do attitude.

"You don't feel kind of weird about it?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Nah," he waves off, "Not anymore. I mean, at first you don't really want to label it, 'cause it's a little too much to begin with. Beginning's always rough. But then, for appearance's sake, you go along with it, and after a while, it's just natural, I guess."

"You don't mind?" By this stage, Mike is positively bewildered.

"Like I said, I'm past that now. But you…" Pierce flicks a glance over him, considering, "You seem pretty stuck on it, yeah?"

"It's.. it's complicated," Mike confides, stuffing his hands into his pockets. And for the first time since this whole ordeal started, he finally admits, "He was my boss… now I can't tell who he is."

Pierce whistles.

"Boss?" he grimaces, rocking back on his heels, "Ouch. That's a combo we ain't seen before.

"Yeah, I didn't imagine it was all that traditional. Even here."

"It's not the worst I've heard of, though," Pierce tells him. "There's this one chick, and trust me, I thank God every damn day this didn't happen to me, that had to go into _foster care _because all of her living relatives had passed away. Last I heard, she was getting on okay, found a nice home and all that, but still. To have to go through all that alone…" He shudders. "I can't even imagine."

Turns out, support group isn't such a waste of time, after all.

Pierce seems like a pretty cool guy, and they exchange numbers with vague commitments to 'hang out.' Mike strikes up a several more conversations with a couple others and leaves feeling more hopeful than he ever would've thought.

It's then that he gets an idea. And it's then that Mike's inner battle starts to slowly dissolve.

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><p><em>6. No more excuses.<em>

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><p>Mike's feeling pretty pleased with himself by the time he arrives home.<p>

After spending the past two hours scrubbing down his greasy oven and revolting refrigerator (which was encrusted with black mould and reeked of spoilt milk) and throwing out all of the junk in his cabinets, he wants nothing more than to collapse on the couch and watch any trashy TV that requires no functioning brain cells. The kitchen is more or less perfect, the majority of his belongings having been boxed away, and all that's left to do is sweep, then mop the floor. After that, it's just a matter of tackling his old bedroom and then his apartment will be fit for the next loser to move in.

Maybe it's his sluggish mind, but Mike doesn't recognise that anything is out of the ordinary until he hears, "Where've you been?"

Mike stills, turning slowly to face Harvey who is standing with his arms crossed and looking positively fuming.

The kid's stomach drops, cursing himself inwardly. He was supposed to be working late.

Still hoping to salvage his innocence, Mike shrugs, "Visiting Grammy."

"Oh?" Harvey cocks a inquisitive brow. "That's where you said you where last time. Tuesday, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, so?" He's closing down, getting defensive. He knows it won't help his case.

"Well, see, that's funny," the older man replies with abnormal airiness. "Because I called your grandmother and she said she hasn't seen or heard from you since our last visit."

Oh, man. He is so screwed. "I don't know what to tell you, Harvey."

Dropping all pretences, Harvey scornfully suggests, "How about the truth?"

He knew all of the ducking out during work hours and narrowly avoiding his boss, while pitching flimsy excuses every time he gets caught would come back and bite him in the ass someday, but Mike just didn't figure it would be this soon.

"Gee," he begins, slowly backing away. "I'd love to stop and chat. But I've kinda got stuff to do. You know the stuff? So many stuffs."

"Nice try, kiddo, but you're not getting out of this one," the lawyer persists. "I want a straight answer. Where were you?"

Tell the truth or lie? It's his decision.

He blurts, "Our underground headquarters in Brooklyn."

The senior partner gazes at him in total bewilderment. "What?"

"I'm an undercover agent working for the British intelligence and I've been sneaking out to report back to my supervisor." Pressing a finger to his lips with exaggerated shifty eyes, he dramatically confides, "Louis is secretly a hardcore drug dealer."

Exhaling in exasperation, Harvey has to compose himself before biting, "Michael, I'm not fooling around."

To his knowledge, Harvey has ever been so pissed that he's used Mike's full-name before, but there's a first for everything.

"No, I kid," he half-chuckles, though inside his heart is hammering. "Actually, I'm a rogue robot who needs to be reprogrammed every forty-eight hours precisely or else I'll go insane and self-destruct."

The older man's jaw tics. "You are _really_ pushing your luck-"

"Okay, I'll give you that one. It's a bit far-fetched," Mike blathers, "The truth is, I lead a double life, wherein I'm really a part-time superhero who is jaded after the loss of my best friend, the only one I couldn't save-"

"For your information," Harvey butts in irately, "When I asked you what you've been up to, that wasn't a free pass to Stupidville."

Without missing a beat, Mike announces, "Stupidville is my alter-ego."

Taking a deep, calming breath, his boss squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering, "You are the most difficult, irritating, infuriating _moron_ I have ever met."

Mike really can't help himself. "Well, you know what they say - takes one to know one."

"Michael," Harvey is very clearly losing his patience, "I am only going to ask this one more time." Pushing a hand through his hair, he repeats, "Where have you been going?"

But Mike can be just as stubborn. "I'm going to my room in a moment."

"It's a simple question," he persists.

"It's none of your business."

"Too bad," Harvey angrily counters. "I'm not dropping this. You might as well be honest with me."

He wouldn't even know where to start.

"You have got to stop treating me with the kid gloves, Harvey," the associate gripes. "I'm not up to anything immoral or perilous or reckless. You just have to trust me. I am asking you to trust me. Is that so hard?"

"At this moment in time, don't hold your breath," the senior partner harshly relates. "You've been lying to me for weeks. How the hell can you expect me to be cool about this?"

"I don't," Mike responds bluntly. "I'm half-waiting for you to strap on a collar and leash and lug me around all of eternity."

"Watch it, rookie," Harvey growls. Another name he hasn't heard in a while. "You are out of line."

Raising mocking brows, the youngster questions cockily, "_Or what?"_

"Or nothing," his boss tells him. "Because you're grounded. Starting now."

"_What?" _Mike reels back. "You can't do that!"

"I can and I am. That's a week's worth of sitting in my office with me, taking lunch with me, and oh, going to all of my meeting's with - you guessed it - _me_. Believe it or not, kiddo, I don't want to be spend my day worrying that you're out doing God knows what. So if this is what it takes to ensure you don't get into any trouble, then I guess you leave me no choice."

"No way! That is so unfair!"

"I don't give a rat's ass what's fair," Harvey declares. "It's happening. Deal with it."

And that was it. All of Mike's protests fall on deaf ears.

Strangely though, it's almost like only his teen self is being punished. Anything the kid in him wants, he gets. Toys, Jellybean, blankie, night-time lullabies - they are all acceptable in Harvey's books. Cell phone, video games, TV and movies, on the other hand, are entirely forbidden. Mike doesn't know if this is a conscious decision on Harvey's part or not, but he doubts that the man is aware what he's doing. He sees no reason why he would be.

What Harvey fails to account for, unfortunately, is the neediness which swiftly engulfs the youngster.

Mike is soon dominated by his toddler counterpart, and surprises himself by enjoying all of the time he gets to spend with Harvey. The downside of course being that Harvey has other obligations and cannot fritter away all of his time entertaining the restless boy. The youngster asks question after question, _why_ after endless _why's_, and starts acting out when he doesn't get said attention.

Mike throws pens at Harvey's head.

He refuses to nap, rips up his briefs, stomps on every juice-box, and breaks his favourite toy car in half out of pure spite. Then cries like it's somehow Harvey's fault.

Harvey is at his wit's end.

Eventually, exhausted and feeling close to tears himself, he has no other option than to decree, "That's it. I think we should have a little Quiet-time."

"No!" Mike unsurprisingly protests. "I don't wanna!"

"Come on, puppy. No more arguing." Harvey pulls him up, grabbing a cushion and leading him to the corner. "Alright, now sit down, take a deep breath and stay here until you've cooled off a bit, okay?" he says gently but firmly. "I know you must be feeling frustrated that I'm too busy to play with you right now, but that doesn't excuse your behaviour."

"No!" he scowls, sitting down but kicking one of his legs in anger.

"Mike. That's enough," the older man warns, with a steady, unrelenting gaze. "It's time for you to be quiet until you feel a little better, got that? Just 'til you settle down."

The boy kicks once more. "No!"

"I'm not going to talk to you until you've calmed down," Harvey explains, simply returning to his desk and leaving Mike to his whining. It takes a further twenty minutes of tears, airborne pens, and a lot of grumbling, but eventually Mike's cries taper off. When all that remains are hoarse, self-pitying whimpers, Harvey finally stops ignoring him and crouches down in front of the now sleepy kid.

"Okay, are you ready to stop throwing things at me?"

Nodding shyly and hiccupping, Mike chews on his thumbnail.

"Good. You wanna fill me in on what that was all about?"

He stares at the senior partner's shoes and half-shrugs.

"Come on, puppy," Harvey murmurs, rubbing the boy's shoulder comfortingly. "What's got you so upset?"

"Just-just miss you," he mumbles, bashfully peeking up from under his lashes.

"Miss me?" the lawyer echoes, frowning faintly. "But I'm right here."

"You'we-you're working."

Scrubbing his forehead with one hand, Harvey sighs. "Well, yeah, I have meetings and responsibilities and lot's and lot's to do, but I'd never let that get in the way of spending time with you, you know that."

"Just miss you," Mike repeats, bottom lip trembling.

Harvey pulls him into a hug, tucking his head under his chin and saying simply, "I know, puppy. I always miss you too."

Regardless of their heart-to-heart, during the next four days, Harvey instigates a lot of Quiet-times. He is predictable, always consistent in his enforcement, but so is Mike, and it isn't long before Harvey discovers a pattern. Which is why, on the Saturday morning in a hopeful bid to make a dent in his sizable paperwork, his father-figure concocts a cunning plan.

He mixes together plain flour and salt, then boils hot water and adds in both vegetable oil and blue food colouring, before combining the wet and dry ingredients and slowly stirring. Once thoroughly blended, Harvey allows this to cool, then kneads the sticky clump, sprinkling an extra dash of flour, so that he's left with his own, homemade play-dough.

Then all he has to do is gather some blunt utensils, cups and bowls, step back and let the intriguing new substance work its magic.

Well… for all of five minutes.

At first, Mike excitedly pushes and prods the squishy slab, rolling it out with his fingers and flattening it with his palms. But that loses its appeal pretty quickly, and Mike is forced to stretch his imagination, gradually becoming more and more inventive.

Before long, the youngster calls, "Look! Look, H'vey! I made a starfish!"

"That's great, puppy," he remarks with a patient smile, glancing over briefly. "I see it."

After a few minutes, Mike begins cramming squashy handfuls into a plastic cup and then hacks at it with a fork, beating and slicing and poking, bright blobs of blue sparking everywhere. Harvey stops reading to watch the frantic movements, eyes crinkling in amusement. Finally, he asks, "Uh... whatcha doing, kiddo?"

"I'm making ice-cream!" he announces proudly.

Harvey's lip quirks. "Really?"

"Uh-huh!" He nods eagerly. "It's blueberry."

He represses an eye roll. How original.

"Sounds fantastic, puppy."

Thrusting the cold lump under the lawyer's nose, Mike demands, "Smell!"

Playing along, Harvey screws up his face and exclaims, "Ugh, that's disgusting!"

Mike's big blue eyes shine with pleasure. Giggling madly, he gives the crumbling play-dough another stir, before placing a hand over the top and shaking the container. "How about now?"

Harvey leans forward and pretends to cautiously sniff. "Mm, much better," he hums, warmth rising in his chest as Mike's face breaks into a delighted beam.

When the 'ice-cream' is served up in a plastic dish shortly after, Harvey picks up a spoon and fake slurps the gloopy mixture up, grinning at Mike's ensuing, jubilant laughter.

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><p>It's Thursday afternoon and Harvey has just left for the day to take Mike to his dentist's appointment.<p>

Donna is collecting some forgotten files from his desk that she intends to drop off at his place later when she pauses, spotting a torn piece of paper half-hidden under the couch.

Bending down, she scrapes it off the floor and squints at what is undeniably Mike's scrawl.

Scanning the page, her eyes are naturally pulled towards the heavily underlined note at the bottom.

She frowns.

_7. Tell Harvey._

Slipping the sheet into her binder, Donna casts a look towards her boss' empty chair and bites her lip, sensing that she has stumbled upon something big as she tentatively muses, "Tell Harvey what?"

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><p><em>Thanks for reading.<em>

_Not my best work, but oh well. Hope you enjoyed._

_This would have been longer had I not been admittedly distracted with my new story Waking Up. Sorry about that._


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